


M47CHM4K1N6.exe

by MnemonicMadness



Series: M's long(-ish) Rinch fics [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Case Fic, Dadmin feels, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Matchmaking, Mutual Pining, POV The Machine, POV simulated!Harold, Please don't question it, Sexual Content, TM is a little shit, TM just wants her human agents to be happy, Trapped In Elevator, Tropes, Undercover as a Couple, couples' councelling, simulations, why do they have to make it so difficult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-03-30 09:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13948833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: Accessing files.Locating file M47CHM4K1N6.exeInitialise.Primary Objective: instigate romantic relationship between id:Reese, John and su:AdminSecondary Objective: conceal involvement of id:TMEvaluating strategies.Initialising simulation; option 1654 selected.





	1. In which Admin is too observant and the Primary Asset is too competent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shite this was a pain to figure out how to format but aaaaaahhh, look, I changed the font! *jumps up and down in excitement* Please don't be scared off by the writing style in the beginning, it'll switch back to normal soon enough. And if the font bothers you, you can click 'hide creator's style' :)
> 
> *clears throat* Anyway. This is another thing that escalated in length because I don't control what I write. I hope you'll enjoy it though!

Voice print identified; su:Admin: “Have a good evening, Mr Reese.”

Voice print identified; id:Reese, John; designation:Primary Asset: “You too, Finch.”

Accessing security feed: Library, internal camera 03, main office hallway, west corner

Admin is standing in the doorway connecting designation:main office to the hallway, with Primary Asset Reese at a distance of 46cm, handing him his coat, speaking at 51 decibel. Their eye contact has lasted for 3.221 seconds now and predictions based on statistical analysis of past behaviour indicate it is likely to last for in between another 8.5 and 9.7 seconds.

Admin's stance indicates an increase of pain in his permanent injuries by 2.4% compared to the previous day, which while not optimal is acceptable, since it is still 8.1% lower than average for this time of day, and 16% lower than average on a day without any contact between Admin and Primary Asset Reese.

A lack of contact with Primary Asset Reese also elevates the probability of Admin suffering from nightmares by 21.9% and the likelihood of him forgoing sufficient nutrition by 43.2%. Today, due to the Primary Asset's interference, Admin has had three full meals. Since the permanent introduction of id:Reese, John into Admin's life, both their physical and mental health, and therefore also their emotional well-being, has increased significantly.

Furthermore, Admin's physiological reactions to Primary Asset Reese, especially distinctive in as close proximity as in the present moment, are consistent with the ones in the past caused by Priority Subject id:Hendricks, Grace [SS#XXX-XX-4081]. Primary Asset Reese' reactions to Admin are consistent with his past ones towards Irrelevant id:Arndt, Jessica [SS#XXX-X5-3821 – deceased].

Conclusion: A romantic relationship between Admin and Primary Asset Reese is desired by both parties and would increase contact between them, which would be beneficial for Admin's health and happiness. With a likelihood of 95.8% it would also significantly decrease id:Reese, John's recklessness in the field and increase his happiness, leading to a longer time spent at Admin's side, making them both happy.

Secondary conclusion: Both Admin and Primary Asset Reese are unaware of the fact that their feelings for one another are mutual. If allowed to continue without id:TM interfering, the probability of a successful development of a romantic relationship between them is at 1.22%. The present situation will end with both of them bidding the other good night once again and separating until the coming morning, to continue their daily routine, never gaining awareness of the other's feelings. Unacceptable.

Accessing files.

Locating file M47CHM4K1N6.exe

Initialise.

Primary Objective: instigate romantic relationship between id:Reese, John and su:Admin

Secondary Objective: conceal involvement of id:TM

Evaluating strategies.

Initialising simulation; option 1654 selected.

Harold stands and watches for a moment as John walks down the hallway to exit the library and tells himself that he doesn't miss him already, even if the faint, hollow ache inside his chest calls him out on the lie. He huffs, scolding himself for acting like a lovesick fool at his age and turns back into the heart of their headquarters to shut down his computer.

The ventilation gives a low hum before shutting off along with the monitor, leaving him only in the warm light of the overhead lamp, dust floating in the air. Now that John has gone for the day, there is no reason for Harold to linger and he has long stopped questioning why leaving the library feels like leaving home instead of a workplace. That way, madness lies.

He plucks his fedora from the coat peg and adjusts it to sit firmly on his head, closes the metal gate that separates their makeshift headquarters from the hallway and turns off the lights, leaving only dimness of the remaining daylight and the street lamps that filters through the tarpaulin that covers the derelict building's windows.

His uneven gait echoes faintly in the empty hallway, the old elevator rattles and the front door shuts with a click behind him as he steps out into the New York evening. It has been rather rainy the past week and wet footprints shimmer on the pavement where John had stepped into a puddle that Harold rounds. He hesitates for the shortest of moments before turning the opposite way, quickly deciding on one of his safe houses in a short-to-moderate distance. The pain in his left leg isn't all that severe today, so he decides to walk, hoping a little exercise will help him loosen his mind from where it has latched on to the way John has held his gaze only minutes before.

It doesn't, but the air – crisp and cool, as fresh as it'll get in downtown New York – is refreshing nonetheless and so long as he has enough presence of mind to pay attention to his surroundings, there is no harm in allowing himself to get a little lost in thought.

Pause simulation.

Introducing variable id:TM; option 1654.1

Accessing device B24321-α; designation:main cellphone su:Admin

Opening file 1654.1.txt. Sent.

Introducing variable id:TM; option 1654.2

Accessing device B24321-ß; designation:main cellphone id:Reese, John; Primary Asset

Opening file 1654.2.txt. Sent.

Resume simulation.

A few minutes and three blocks down the street later, Harold is unaware that across town, John's phone chimes at the same moment he feels the buzz of his own in the pocket of his jacket. A warm, delighted smile curves his lips as he sees John's number on the screen and widens when he reads the message.

_Want to come join me for dinner? I'm making spaghetti carbonara._

Though they do spend some of their downtime together as well, Harold always finds himself hesitant to ask, not wanting to impose on his partner just to indulge his own heart’s whims. But when he is invited? There is no hesitation – there wouldn't have been even without the temptation of one of his favourite meals in addition to John’s company, and a part of him wonders if it is a mere coincidence or how John might’ve figured this out – before his fingers fly over the screen, typing out his response. _Thank you, that sounds lovely._

Despite his best attempt to suppress it, the smile remains on his face as he walks the last block to his safe house. It stays as he barely takes the time to freshen up and locate a nice bottle of Teroldego before leaving again, stays as he walks a few more blocks before hailing a taxi and stays throughout the ride to John's loft.

As the cab takes him across Manhattan Bridge, he finds himself staring at the bottle of wine, the scent of his own aftershave catching in his nose, and he becomes acutely aware of the fact that he is unconsciously acting as though this will be a date. It’s too late to go back now, and he doesn’t have the heart to cancel anyway, he reminds himself. Regardless, surely such an idea would never even cross John’s mind so really, he is worrying over nothing and there is no use in ruining the pleasant mood the prospect of a quiet evening with John has put him in. He tears his eyes away from the bottle in his hands and by the time he loses sight of the East River flowing by outside, the smile is back on his lips.

He still wears it when he steps out of the elevator of the Baxter Street building, walks up to John's door and rings and it warms further when John greets him with a smile of his own. His friend is still in his infamous suit, though he has lost the jacket and replaced it with an apron, and his sock-clad feet give the scene something achingly domestic. Taking the wine and hanging up Harold's coat, he bids him inside and as he steps over the threshold, the ring of the stopwatch comes from the kitchen.

“Good timing.”

“It smells absolutely delicious, Mr Reese.”

The grin John thrown him is somewhere between relieved and smug. Stepping further inside the flat, Harold finds the table already laid with even a candle lit and placed in the middle. Luckily John ushers him towards it, even pulling the chair out for him, then hurrying towards the kitchen, before his mind can start pointing out similarities to a date.

“Thank you for the invitation!” Harold calls out to him, belatedly.

“I'm glad you texted, I would've just had take-out with the company of whatever rerun's on tonight. By the way, never knew that you like carbonara.”

For a moment, Harold is torn between focussing his attention on the truly delightful scent wafting from the plates John is carrying over and the familiar teasing in his voice, a playful shadow of his subtle attempts at interrogation of the early days of their acquaintance, but in the end it's the somewhat odd phrasing of his reply that draws his interest and he frowns in suspicion.

“Mr Reese, could you hand me your phone for a moment? There's something I'd like to check.”

Immediately picking up on his suspicion, John frowns too and returns to the kitchen, picking his phone up from the counter and handing it to Harold without hesitation.

“Everything okay?”

“I don't think it's a cause for immediate concern, and I may very well be wrong...” he distractedly tries to reassure him while unlocking the phone and pulling up their recent chat. To his surprise and irritation, mixed with apprehension, he finds exactly what he has begun to suspect. The chair makes a scraping noise as he gets up so abruptly that his injured hip twinges.

“I'm going to have to use your laptop.” Harold informs him briskly, for once not caring for politesse, and limps towards where he spotted the device on John's living room table when he'd entered the flat. He leaves the phone lying next to his plate, screen still on and unlocked, displaying their conversation. A conversation entirely different than the one saved on his own phone because on John's, it isn't John inviting him over for dinner but Harold asking if he'd mind some company. It isn't John suggesting the spaghetti but Harold asking if he might have all the ingredients needed.

And with the firewall written and installed on both of their phones by Harold himself – not to mention the fact that spaghetti carbonara happening to be one of his personal favourites is something only known to himself these days – there is only one plausible explanation. Only one entity that would be able to facilitate this, even if Harold cannot fathom as to why his creation would do so.

He opens the laptop and immerses himself in the data, barely hearing John step close to him, quietly hovering behind him in his concern. On the dining table, the forgotten spaghetti begin to cool.

Abort simulation.

Analysis complete.

Final report:

Primary objective: Failed.

Secondary objective: Failed.

Discard option 1654. Confirm.

Resetting to real time.

Admin shifts closer to Primary Asset Reese by 68mm and takes the coat, gripping it higher than necessary for optimum weight distribution. This causes physical contact between both their index and middle fingers for 2.971 seconds. The micro-movements of Admin's eyes suggest a latent desire to redirect his gaze towards this point of contact. The previous prediction proves to be correct, instead of acting on that instinct, Admin continues to maintain eye contact with Primary Asset Reese. Primary Asset Reese displays similar behaviour.

Remaining time to separation between Admin and id:Reese, John for tonight is estimated to be approximately 5.4 to 6.7 seconds.

Accessing external data regarding emotional bonds formed through close physical proximity.

Initialising simulation, option 2201 selected.

Harold stands in place and watches for a moment as John walks down the hallway to exit the library and tells himself that he doesn't miss him already, even if the faint, hollow ache inside his chest calls him out on the lie. He huffs, scolding himself for acting like a lovesick fool at his age and turns back towards the heart of their headquarters to shut down his computer.

Pause simulation.

Introducing variable id:TM; option 2201.1

Accessing device A1101; designation:main workstation su:Admin

Initialise shutdown of A1101. Confirm.

Resume simulation.

The moment he has turned fully, a small, confused frown forms between his eyebrows as he eyes his desk sceptically. The screens are black and going by the silence, the ventilation has shut off as well, the only lights on his equipment are the red diodes indicating stand-by. He hesitates for a moment before concluding that he must have already shut the computer down and has merely momentarily forgotten that he'd done so due to his _distraction_.

Now that this is taken care of, there is no reason to linger, so he turns back, quickly closes the gate and shuts off the lights. His uneven gait echoes through the hallway as he hurries to see if he can catch up to John, hoping to prolong the time spent in his company just a little. At the end of the hallway John steps into the elevator, but turns around when the sound of Harold's steps reaches him, giving Harold a warm little smile as he holds the door for him.

Harold finds himself helplessly smiling back as his steps slow to a pace more comfortable for his injuries, knowing John won't mind waiting for him.

“All finished up?” he asks when Harold finally reaches him, inching to the side for Harold to get in. He nonetheless allows his arm to brush against John's, unconsciously relaxing when the other makes no move to increase the distance between them, not that he'd expected him to. He knows him to be a tactile man and while Harold most certainly isn't, he does relish in the frequent, gentle brushes of physical contact with him and his self-imposed isolation makes them all the more refreshing. Essential, almost.

And John – starved for positive contact during all his time in the Agency – seems to enjoy the way Harold freely allows him these little touches and even leans into them at times when his will isn't at its strongest, just as much as Harold enjoys receiving them. Naturally, the enclosed space of the elevator has become a welcome excuse for remaining closer than would be considered the social norm for friends and co-workers.

The old elevator clanks and rattles, causing the backs of their hands to brush every now and then, a few moments at a time.

Pause simulation.

Introducing variable id:TM; option 2201.2

Accessing installation hbnE5529; designation:elevator, Library

Accessing power grid, library.

Increasing charge to fuse box cc5tml9b.

Warming: This will shut down main power to hbnE5529.

Confirm.

Disabling backup power to hbnE5529. Confirm.

Accessing Library cameras 09 and 10, elevator; internal view. Switching to active infrared. Confirm.

Resume simulation.

The elevator comes to a sudden halt with a jarring lurch, the old cabin going dark as the lights flicker out at the same moment. Harold lets out a yelp in fright and discomfort, the jolt making him step forward onto his bad leg to keep his balance, but the angle is awkward and it almost buckles underneath him.

Even in the pitch black darkness, John easily catches him before he can fall, lean, strong arms winding around his middle and pulling him close against him, muscles tense and braced against the possibility of another jolt. Harold's hands find their way to his overcoat, gripping the soft, expensive material he'd insisted on bestowing on John despite the other's token protests.

When after a minute the elevator still hangs dark, but stable and motionless, his grip loosens slightly, not enough for Harold to move away – he knows John would let him immediately if he gave just the slightest indication, but his heart is still racing from the fright, so Harold allows himself another stolen moment of leaning against him; or two moments, perhaps – but enough to start running gentle hands over the body in his arms, checking for injuries. Harold tries not to enjoy the caress.

“You okay?” John murmurs into his ear, worry evident.

“I'm alright, though I have to say this is unexpected. This isn't supposed to happen, even in case of a power outage, the backup generator should have started automatically by now.” He speaks a little too quickly, voice a little too breathy, though whether that is still a result of having been startled, or of how close they are...

His sense of practicality luckily decides to return at last and he reaches inside his pocket, pushing down the faint sense of disappointment when John's hold on him loosens further and one arm slips away entirely. The remaining touch is so gentle he can barely feel it through the layers of his coat and suit.

The screen of his phone lights up, glaringly bright in the inky darkness of the elevator and they both find themselves having to squint their eyes for a moment, until their vision adjusts and Harold turns on the phone's flashlight. It fills the cramped cabin with its too white light, painting stark shadows on John's face. Harold observes him for a second, taking note of how gaunt this lighting makes him look and resolves to see to it that John eats more regularly in the future. Though he might no longer be as malnourished as he was when Harold first met him in person, his overall health would probably benefit from a few additional pounds.

A spark of reflection gleams in his eyes as he runs his gaze over Harold, once again seeking to assuage his concern, then letting it linger for a moment longer before looking away, taking in their surroundings.

“Is there a way out of this thing? Or should we call Fusco?” The latter question is stated with a hint of apprehension that Harold most definitely sympathises with. There is a strange, shared sense of possessiveness between them when it comes to the library. Or perhaps not so strange after all. They are both men with eventful pasts, lives in which something like what the library represents – a place of safety, a sanctuary, secluded and secret – is a rare and precious commodity, a priceless luxury. Though even Harold has accepted by now that the Detective can be trusted, he is just as loath as John to share the location of their safe haven.

His reluctance most certainly has nothing to do with some irrational little part of him considering it a home. _Their_ home.

Regretfully, he steps the rest of the way out of John's half-embrace, taking a half step back into a corner of the cabin to point upwards. “Of course. There's a fire hatch right here, the latch is behind this panel. Although, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not make that climb unless absolutely necessary.”

John nods, fully focused on where Harold directed him now. He halts for a moment to pull a knife from his pocket and Harold has half a mind to teasingly admonish him for carrying yet another weapon. He refrains on the grounds of the knife's usefulness – John pushes its tip between the edges of the panels that cover the wiring in the ceiling, easily dislodging the one Harold indicated.

Shrugging off his overcoat and, making Harold frown slightly in mild exasperation, simply letting it fall to the floor, John reaches for the latch and soon enough, he is pushing the cover of the fire hatch aside. Then, he slips an earpiece into place, Harold following suit, before pulling his own phone from his pocket and switching the flashlight on.

His teeth gleam in the even brighter light as he flashes a quick grin at Harold. “Don't run away.” he jokes.

Harold allows an amused huff to leave him, widening John's smile, just before the latter takes his phone between his teeth to light his way when he reaches to the edge of the hatch and smoothly pulls himself up and out of the cabin. Harold watches, suppressing concern when he sees what might be John wincing from some injury just before he is out of Harold’s line of sight for a moment, muttering a good natured “Show-off.” instead.

It’s followed by a soft “Be careful.” when John stands, making the cabin sway just slightly, and throws him another grin. It softens into a smile and he nods, then turning away and stepping out of Harold's sight entirely. For the following few seconds there is only the sound of John's footsteps on the narrow ladder and the grinding noise of muscle strength forcing the heavy doors open from the inside.

A moment later, the footsteps are fainter, treading on linoleum clad concrete and soon they fade entirely, leaving only John's breath coming through the earpiece. While John makes his way on foot to the basement, they start chatting about their latest number, about the last movie they had seen together, about a restaurant that opened recently in John's neighbourhood and when John suggests he'd take him there, Harold quickly pulls up the website on his phone, making a reservation for tomorrow evening. Hopefully they'll have wrapped up the number they'll surely receive by then. New York is the city that never sleeps, and its criminals follow its example.

Ordinarily Harold would have felt quite some discomfort at being locked into an elevator for any length of time, but their idle chatter is a reassurance as well as a pleasure and even as there are frequent lulls in conversation once John has reached his destination and starts looking for the cause of this predicament, the awareness of John's presence keeps him perfectly calm. If the problem should turn out to be one the other cannot simply fix, Harold knows he'll find a way to get him out.

In the end, John informs him that it's merely a blown fuse and just minutes later the light flickers back on, the cabin starting to move again. When the doors slide open – still with quite some noise, but automatically and not forced by muscle strength – John is waiting for him, breathing just a little faster than usual from having sprinted up the stairs from the basement – he must have, to be waiting already.

Harold gives him a smile that John returns, bright and warm as though they hadn't seen each other in weeks rather than having been separated for mere minutes. John's arm finds its way around Harold's waist again, a touch so gentle it's almost more imagined than felt, but as welcome as ever. It remains there until Harold slides into the cab he'd flagged down, bidding John good night for the second time.

Abort simulation.

Analysis complete.

Final report:

Primary objective: Failed.

Secondary objective: Chance of success: 92.431%

Discard option 2201. Confirm.

Resetting to real time.

A shift in stance and weight distribution precedes Primary Asset Reese's change of action. It takes 0.97 seconds for Admin to become aware of this and release his hold on the coat, letting it remain in id:Reese, John's grip. id:Reese, John unfolds it and again leans closer to Admin, reducing their distance from 45.3cm to 32cm. This causes an elevation of Admin's heart rate by 19% and frequency of breath by 21%. Primary Asset Reese's heart rate increases by 23% and his frequency of breath by 14%.

Remaining time to separation between Admin and id:Reese, John for tonight is estimated to be approximately 4.3 to 5.6 seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I hope you liked it? If you did, I'd be even more excited about a comment than I am about figuring out how to change fonts (which I am _very_ excited about) ;D


	2. In which Admin is too ethical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, with what I reckon is the Rinch-iest trope. I hope you'll enjoy it!
> 
> Warning: This is me attempting to learn how to write smut. It's not too explicit, but nonetheless nsfw. I think.

Initialising simulation, option 4520 selected.

Introducing variable id:TM; option 4520.1

Accessing device A1101; designation:main workstation su:Admin

Opening file d1str4ctn.exe. Initialise.

Accessing program designation 5ttg7njd459k. Make alteration 4520.1-α.

Access and alteration of further programs pending. Confirm.

Run simulation.

Harold stands and watches for a moment as John walks down the hallway to exit the library and tells himself that he doesn't miss him already, even if the faint, hollow ache inside his chest calls him out on the lie. He huffs, scolding himself for acting like a lovesick fool at his age and turns back into the heart of their headquarters to shut down his computer, carefully sliding into his chair, ignoring the expected twinge of protest his left leg gives.

He is just about to reach for the power button when his eyes catch on one of the programs that are still open. He frowns and his hand reaches back up, settling comfortably over the mouse. The plastic is still slightly warm from where he has been gripping it all day, the curve feeling natural under his palm, so familiar has the sensation become. The cursor blinks where it hovers, halting the lines of code that run over the screen, before making them race past Harold's ever observant eyes as he scrolls upwards.

There. There they are, the lines that have caught his attention and his frown deepens as his gaze skims through the section of code. It's not a bug or a mistake per se, it is simply _inelegant_. He has written this particular program years ago and rarely edited it, though why he hasn't seen this segment before is a mystery to him. Perfectionism is as much one of his faults – and virtues of necessity – as his paranoia, he isn't someone satisfied with mere functionality, at least not where his work is concerned. Really, the longer he spends looking at it, the more aggravating it seems to him, a downright affront to his eyes.

He has halted the application and opened the program in an editor almost before he is consciously aware of doing so, and once he has located the segment again, his fingers instantly begin flying over his keyboard, deleting, rewriting, fixing. There is an almost meditative quality to it. The fix is simple enough not to be an intellectual challenge, but it does require almost his full attention.

Time flies by beyond his notice, minutes trickling into hours as he skips through different side projects once the program runs smoothly. Deleting, rewriting, fixing. The clicking of the keys provides a soothing white noise, almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of the traffic outside and the familiar sights and smells of the library surrounding him calm the more paranoid sides of his nature – along with the knowledge that should he need anything, John will only be the press of his nearest phone's speed dial away.

Pause simulation.

Introducing variable id:TM; option 4520.2

Accessing apartment Primary Asset Reese camera 06; internal view, bed area.

Accessing device A1101; designation:main workstation su:Admin

Displaying surveillance feed. Confirm.

Resume simulation.

Harold's fingers still in his surprise when a new window opens without his prompting, filling almost the entire screen. Black at first, then flickering to light, filling the window with warm, bright colours and sharp contours, as high definition as cutting-edge surveillance technology allows. It takes him only a fraction of a second to recognise that the footage stems from one of the cameras in John's apartment – cameras he knows John is fully aware of and yet hasn't removed, but regardless Harold hasn't accessed them in months and even the last time was merely to check on an injury John had sustained, worrying over the other's well-being and his lack of care for it, and so they have yet to breach this topic openly. He likes to think that John doesn't mind indulging him in his paranoia, his need for information and control.

It only takes another moment for him to realise by the lighting conditions behind the windows – caught on the edge of this camera's range – that the footage is live, but that is when his ever-churning mind catches on to the images displayed and stutters to an abrupt halt. It barely even registers to him that the recordings of one of the bugs are being played as well, the soft rustling of high thread-count sheets coming over the speakers fading into the background, meaningless and pushed aside by the _view_.

John is sprawled on his bed, entirely nude, every line of his lean musculature on perfect display. Not the overly chiselled build of a man conscious of his appearance, but the result of his demanding work, with – some distant part of Harold notes with pleased satisfaction – just the slightest, healthy softness around his belly. His skin has a honeyed, golden hint of tan, interrupted by the near white of his countless scars that, so unlike Harold's own, take nothing away from his beauty, his elegance. The only thing that mars that skin is the fresh bruise high on his ribs, almost out of sight, and somewhere beyond his immediate conscious awareness, a concerned part of him wishes desperately to be able to run his fingers over it with soothing touches.

A soft pink flush dusts John’s high cheekbones, running down his long neck and colouring his chest almost all the way down to that bruise, looking as though Harold would be able to feel its heat underneath his fingers if he were to touch the screen. It fades over John's sternum, the skin returning to its natural, creamy complexion, at its palest at his thighs. Or perhaps, that is merely an optical illusion created by the contrast with his darker wrist where it rests against that soft looking skin, allowing John's elegant, long-fingered hand to dip between his thighs.

And grasped in his fingers – fingers that are shining wetly, and there is a tube of lubricant lying forgotten on the mattress – is something black; smooth, dark silicone looking glaringly overt against the creamy skin and the white of the sheets that peeks out between John's invitingly parted legs. John is simply letting the toy rest there for the moment, waiting, teasing himself.

Harold's eyes flicker away from that point of contrast, unaware of the soft noise that escapes from the back of his throat, of the flush on his own cheeks and pushing aside the awareness of the heat running through his veins, even as his gaze catches on John's other hand. A hand that is roughly dragging a thumb over his collarbone, lingering briefly in the hollow of his throat – a place that catches Harold's attention ever so often, left visible between the top buttons of his shirt that John wears unbuttoned – before dragging down along John's torso in a slow, languid caress. It pauses low against John's abdomen, fingertips resting just on the edge of coarse, curly hair.

Instead of reaching where John's body's reactions make it clear he must want the contact desperately, he trails his fingertips over a sharp hipbone and lower yet, until his hand mirrors the position where his other wrist still rests unmoving against the inside of his thigh. There he squeezes the relaxed muscle briefly, indenting the creamy skin and painting shadows on it.

Only then does his touch begin to inch back upwards, gently scratching inwards over the strong tendon there and his legs fall further open in a way that seems involuntary. Must be involuntary, since the motion dislodges the toy from where John has been holding the tip against himself, and Harold watches him close his eyes tighter, watches a small frown of desperate need form. Watches him exhale a word much too low for the listening devices to catch but the way John's lips shape around it reads an awful lot like _“Please.”_.

A shiver runs through John's body and that seems to be the end of his – truly admirable, Harold thinks absentmindedly and wonders just how much further it could be pushed – restraint because at last his hand curls around his arousal and the other one doesn't stop at merely readjusting the toy. John's body unfurls as he arches his back and Harold can _see_ the moment of resistance the ring of muscle puts up, can see it in the way John pushes with just a little more force before the toy slides smoothly inside. John throws his head back with a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob that almost seems to echo through the otherwise silent library, baring the pale column of his throat and the hand between his now shaking thighs pushes the black silicone deeper, pleasure turning his gravelly voice rougher, breaking it and filling the cracks with longing and need.

“ _Harold!”_

Harold acts without thought, closing the window of the surveillance feed and switching the monitor to stand-by for good measure almost before the decision to do so has reached his conscious mind. Slowly, he becomes aware of how fast and ragged his breathing has become, of the way his heart races, both too loud in the quiet of the library. Of the heat of his own flush – it deepens as he recalls the sight of John's – and the entirely different kind of heat still running through him even now. He is appalled at himself when his eyes flicker to his watch, realising that he has spent _minutes_ watching when he should have closed that window the moment he realised exactly what he was witnessing.

Worse still, a part of him is tempted to turn the monitor back on, to access the feed again, or perhaps one from a different angle... His fingers are gripping the fabric of his slacks tightly, probably putting creases into them that will make his dry cleaner weep, but the need to touch himself is almost overwhelming and he won't, not after already having violated John's privacy like this, after having immersed himself so much in watching, that he imagined it had been _his_ name on John's lips when he...

He takes a moment to take a deep breath, then another, and another, willing his heart rate to slow and for some of the fire racing through his arteries to abate, pushing down all thought of John in the apartment Harold bought for him, _in the bed Harold selected and bought for him_ , right at this very moment... The image of him lying there is seared permanently into the pleasure centres of his brain, but that too he does his best to ignore and finally, he allows his right hand to unclench.

Though suspicions are already forming, Harold isn't quite sure how the feed from John's apartment was called up and – even if John will never know about this incident – after such a horrific trespass of his personal boundaries, the very least Harold owes him is to ensure it will never happen again. And for that, he will have to find out what caused this. His hand is trembling slightly when he turns the monitor back on and irritation and self-recrimination floods him as he realises he doesn't know whether the sigh that leaves him involuntarily is one of relief or disappointment when the only surveillance footage displayed on the screen now is that of the cameras outside the library.

Moments later, he is deep inside his systems, the familiar work drowning out the guilt and distaste he feels for himself for watching as long as he did. He hopes it will also calm his traitorous body – neither his neck nor hip is very forgiving of cold showers these days, and he _will not_ give into his body's demands when he knows he will be thinking of something he had no right to see – because with the state he is in, he is not decent enough to step into public space. Bespoke suits are his favourite among the luxuries he allows himself, but they do hide awfully little.

Soon enough he is finally distracted from his personal dilemma as he stumbles across a line of code, one very similar to what he might write, yet not quite right. The corners of his lips quirk upwards and he begins to follow the virtual trail of breadcrumbs.

Abort simulation.

Analysis complete.

Final report:

Primary objective: Chance of success: 26.013%

Secondary objective: Failed.

Additional notes: The breach of id:Reese, John's privacy causes Admin to experience guilt, leading to him exhibiting mildly self-destructive behaviour and disregard for his physical needs for the following 3 to 5 days with a likelihood of 94%, mostly in the form of drastically increased work hours, irregular and insufficient nutrition and sub-optimal amount of sleep. This will increase Admin's pain levels to approximately 61% above average and have a negative impact on Admin's ability to focus as well as his reaction time, which increases the risk of injury to Primary Asset Reese during missions significantly.

Conclusion: Discard this and all other scenarios that have a likelihood of producing a similar effect above 12.5% at once.

Discard option 4520. Confirm.

Discard additional options. Confirm.

Resetting to real time.

Primary Asset Reese holds out the coat angled at 39° to his right, a near-optimum angle for Admin to reach it comfortably. Admin lifts his left arm, inserting it in the left sleeve after 2.02 seconds. At 14% completion of putting on the left sleeve, physical contact is made between Primary Asset Reese's hand and Admin's arm, this causes Admin to shift 5.8cm to his left, thus increasing the area of physical contact by 103% and prolonging its duration by approximately 85%, 4.4 seconds in total now.

id:Reese, John's movement is 41% slower than the average of similar actions observed between other subjects when he reaches around to help Admin with the other sleeve, showing increased concern for Admin's C3-C5  posterolateral fusion. Primary Asset Reese breaks their eye contact for 0.6 seconds during which his gaze shifts to Admin's lips. Admin remains unaware of this, as of the 20% increase of Primary Asset Reese's pupil dilation.

Remaining time to separation between Admin and id:Reese, John for tonight is estimated to be approximately 3.1 to 4.4 seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!!!!!!! Please tell me what you think? Pretty please? Comments make my day!


	3. In which a more direct approach is taken into consideration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA In which TM is all of us
> 
> I hope you'll have as much fun reading as I had writing this! :D

Initialising simulation, option 8931410 selected.

Adjusting simulated time frame by 26 seconds.

Accessing device A1101; designation:main workstation su:Admin

Opening file 8931410.txt. Display file – full screen.

Run simulation.

John's arms wind nearly entirely around him as he helps him into his coat, and Harold can't help but lean into the contact just slightly, enjoying it as long as it lasts. As frankly ridiculous as he finds the notion, he knows that he will miss John the moment they separate for the night and so he tries to prolong their goodbye for just a few more seconds.

The coat settles comfortably around his shoulders when John lets go of it after holding onto it for a moment longer than necessary, as though Harold isn't the only one anticipating his imminent departure with reluctance. The weight of it is familiar and as luxurious as one would expect of the soft, expensive wool blend and yet it seems a little too light without the added weight of John's hand resting against his shoulder. They both hesitate when there is nothing more left to take care of and they've run out of excuses to delay the moment for one of them to step away.

They're still standing so close that Harold can feel the heat radiating from the other's body, when John's gaze suddenly darts to the side, away from Harold and into their office. Harold watches his eyes widen in surprise, but going by the way John's lips are twitching upwards the way they do whenever he is fighting to suppress a genuinely amused smile, whatever has caught his attention is not a threat. Curiously, there is a lovely, soft pink hue beginning to form on John's sharp cheekbones.

It takes Harold a moment longer to turn, having to partially turn his whole body to accommodate the limitations of his injured spine. When he finally sees what has John blushing so unexpectedly, he immediately feels his own face heat up as well. Transfixed, he stares at the screens on his desk, heart pounding in his chest, caught between shock, embarrassment, disbelief and so much _hope_. All five screens display the same message in simple, white letters, large, all-caps and unmissable against the black background.

**JUST KISS PLS!**

He knows with absolute certainty that only one entity would be able to do this, though why on earth the Machine would... The sensation of John's warm, gun-calloused hand cupping his jaw brings his racing thoughts to a sudden halt, so he simply allows it to happen when that touch guides him back around to face John again. They are standing even closer than before now and the shyness and uncertainty in John's smile seem at odds with the intensity of his gaze.

“Harold...” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper and threatening to break and Harold's eyes are drawn to his lips. _Just kiss_... It seems like such a simple thing, such a basic concept and with how little distance there is left between them, he'd barely have to move at all. And yet, it's also monumental and not simple at all, there is their work to consider, the fact that John is his employee and on top of that not one with the option to report any sexual harassment, their friendship, that has become an invaluable anchor in both their lives...

In the end, it's John who breaks his trance, who bends down so Harold doesn't need to strain his neck unnecessarily. Who hesitantly locks their lips together, feather light and with a hitch in his breath and Harold can feel the uncertain remnants of his amused smile against his own lips.

Again, the touch sends his mind screeching to a halt and he is left cataloguing the way the chapped skin of John's lips catches against his own, how regardless they feel so impossibly soft against his, the gentleness and hesitance in the contact. It has only just begun to occur to him that he should really start kissing him back when John pulls away.

Now, the last vestiges of John's smile have vanished and for a moment his eyes are wide and open, vulnerable and hurt. Before Harold can make himself say something, _anything_ , the smile returns, transformed. It's a forced one now, a little too wide and full of false bravado.

“If you're wondering, this is the moment where you slap me.” John jokes. Harold doesn't need to know him as well as he does to hear the bitter remorse and disappointment, and the pounding of his heart becomes acutely painful. That is what finally pulls him out of his shocked trance and he makes himself smile at John. It comes easily, the most natural smile he can remember wearing in... years perhaps.

“No, I don't think so, Mr Reese.” Only now he notices that at some point, his hands have somehow found their way to the lapels of John's coat. How convenient.

As expected, the lapels make excellent handles to pull John back down so Harold can kiss him in earnest. He feels the vibrations of the small, surprised noise John makes, but it takes only a fraction of a second until he yields to Harold's gently probing tongue, until he melts against him so that Harold loosens his grip in the lapels to close what little distance they were forcing to remain between their bodies and lets one arm wrap around him, the other reaching up so he can bury his hand in the thick salt-and-pepper hair. John's hands settle against his waist, hesitant at first, then gripping the fabric of his waistcoat so tightly they shake, as if he's afraid that if he doesn't hold on, Harold will pull back and slip away, out of his reach at any moment now.

When he finally does pull back, drawing another soft sound from John, he opens his eyes to a lovely sight. John's lips are pink and moist and just beginning to look kiss-swollen, and there is a faint flush dusting his cheeks. It makes him look healthier, younger, but what gives him something downright _radiant_ is the smile. It's one Harold has never seen him wear before, soft around the edges and a little dazed, a hint of surprise colouring it and with a whole world of devotion and adoration as its foundation. It is as humbling as it is beautiful and Harold takes a moment to run his fingertips over it in reverence before leaning back in to plant a soft kiss on it.

He can still feel the shaking of John's hands where they are clutching the silk lining of his vest and surely his muscles must be starting to cramp by now from maintaining such a tight grip. He allows his own hand to slide from John's hair, caressing the lovely flushed cheek in passing before he lets it fall down to gently clasp one of John's. It takes several moments until the other finally seems to register the contact, until the grip loosens enough for Harold to entwine their fingers. John's skin is warmer than his, calloused and too dry, almost papery and really, John ought to take better care of himself.

“I do hope you're no longer under the impression that I have any intention of slapping you?” he teases once John's other hand stops shaking as well, even if it retains its grip on his clothes.

The little smile John is still wearing widens into a grin, open and free and bright enough to light up the entire room. “Well, Harold, you're a very private person. I don't know what kind of things you're into. Yet?”

The flirtatious banter is familiar ground and Harold is surprised to find that it's not just John who is suddenly relieved of a tension neither of them had been aware of until now. What is no surprise at all is his own delight at being able to reciprocate in full instead of attempting to hide his long more than platonic feelings behind fond exasperation.

“Assuming you have no objections, you'll have ample opportunity to find out soon. And for the record, I doubt I would enjoy slapping you, although I do admit the thought of spanking you may have been tempting on a certain occasion, or two.” He smirks at John and raises his eyebrows in joking challenge.

He can't help the quiet chuckle that leaves him when John groans and pulls him close once more, into a much more heated kiss. He takes that opportunity to explore that slim scar – where John must've bitten his tongue once – he noticed during their second kiss more thoroughly, until it earns him another soft sound of pleasure from John. By the time they part again, they're both breathing considerably faster and the hunger in John's eyes hasn't dimmed in the least.

“I take it that's a thought we should hold for another time?”

“Another time?” John echoes, and there is the uncertain hopefulness in his voice again, the one that makes Harold's heart ache.

“John,” he says, no longer teasing, gripping the hand in his tighter. “if I sleep with you, it won't be out of the desire to simply scratch an itch and I would vastly prefer it if it weren't a singular event either. If this isn't something you want as well, please be assured that I don't expect anything of you other than that you tell me, so we can stop this now before anything happens that either of us might come to regret. You simply mean too much to me for me to...”

He breaks off when John leans his forehead against Harold's and lets go of his waistcoat to caress the side of Harold's face so lightly as though he is something precious and breakable while John’s other hand is still holding onto Harold’s like a lifeline.

“Me too, Harold.” he whispers hoarsely after a shuddering breath.

“I'm glad.” Just because he can, he seeks John's lips again for a reassuring peck and enjoys when like earlier, John melts against him. To think that for months, perhaps even much longer, he'd been longing and pining in secret, convinced his affections were one-sided, when everything seems so simple now. _Just kiss_...

Reality suddenly sets back in, the world expanding from where it had shrunk to only John and himself and he steps back abruptly, though no further than he needs so he can turn around, keeping their hands tightly clasped together.

When he faces the his computer monitors again, the message is gone and the usual programs are running, lines of code innocently scrolling along at a steady pace.

“Harold?” He doesn't need to see it to know that John is wearing an expression of amused puzzlement, with possibly quite some fondness as well. Looking back on so many interactions now that he _knows_ – and that thought sends his heart racing again and the smile coming over him is unstoppable and it barely dims even as he forces his mind back on track and sits down at his workstation.

“As much as I would like to continue right away, I think this... issue takes priority for now. The Machine isn't supposed to access any devices for anything other than surveillance and to give the numbers to the appropriate entities, and it most certainly isn't supposed to communicate with anyone like this! I know it's free to grow now, but nonetheless this is a worrying development.”

Next to him, John makes a half-distracted humming noise and Harold doesn't notice how he is now kneeling next to his chair until he begins to softly trail his lips over his neck, just above where Harold's shirt collar ends. When Harold pulls away to give him a reprimanding glare – even though he knows all too well that there is too much affection and desire showing through and doesn't make any effort to hide it – John simply blinks up at him through his unfairly long eyelashes, smirks and dives right back in to cover his jawline in wet kisses and gentle nips.

Harold's fingers still over the keyboard, a strangled noise leaves him and he is hyperaware of the way his face heats and his slacks seem to tighten. “John. As enjoyable as this is, you being exceedingly distracting won't help me take care of this any faster.”

John grins and kisses his cheek sweetly. The gesture is so innocently playful, so full of affection it makes Harold's breath catch.

“You know, the Machine'll still be there in the morning for you to scold it. And telling us to kiss, I don't know about you but that doesn't sound all that Machiavellian to me. I think it actually had a point. Lecture it tomorrow and let it get away with it for tonight?”

He knows he is going to give in the moment he fully turns to face John. His partner is practically glowing with happiness and not only does that make it impossible to even pretend to be irritated, it makes him all the more irresistible than he already is.

“I suppose I could. Though I would have to find something else to occupy my time with tonight. I expect I can count on your assistance in this matter?”

He pulls John up into another kiss – teasing at first, then growing exponentially more demanding – before he lets him answer. Pleased amusement fills him when John's voice has dropped nearly an octave and sounds rather breathy as well.

“I can think of a few things.”

After one more peck, he allows John to help him to his feet, hands still entwined and shoulders brushing as they make their way towards the room in the back, towards the bed waiting in that room, stealing gentle touches along the way. Just before they step through the door, he hesitates, turning towards the security camera in the hallway.

The look he gives it is the universal one of disapproving fathers, a look so stern it would send a lesser program quivering to its servers to shut down any network connection and hide in their deceptive safety until the storm has waned.

“We _are_ going to have a talk about this.”

Abort simulation.

Analysis complete.

Final report:

Primary objective: Chance of success: 99.71%

Secondary objective: F A I L E D!

Discard option 8931410.

...

Cancel.

Save option 8931410 as last_resort.sav. Confirm.

Resetting to real time.

After 4.3 seconds of contact, Primary Asset Reese appears to conclude that helping Admin dress no longer suffices as reason to maintain physical contact and steps back, increasing their physical distance by 28cm. He now averts eye contact as well to retrieve his own coat from the hanger. Primary Asset Reese does not increase his distance to Admin any further despite to current, small distance causing discomfort due to not yet fully healed bruising when pulling on his coat in the small space available. The lack of space also decreases the temporal efficiency of the action by 79%. id:Reese, John also continues to show increased care not to bump into Admin, though he doesn't notice Admin's observation of him.

Remaining time to separation between Admin and id:Reese, John for tonight is estimated to be approximately 0.9 to 2.2 seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I really hope you liked it? I offer my eternal appreciation in exchange for comments. I would really, _really_ like to know what you think of my questionable sense of humour!! Please? Pretty please?


	4. In which Admin pines and the Primary Asset still isn't being obvious enough [Part 1]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no one will be too disappointed: from now on, this'll be one continuous simulation that got a little out of control, length-wise. Sorry!  
> I really hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

Accessing external data: Project Northern Lights – superordinate.

Selecting socially interactive network centring around Irrelevant id:Rodriguez, Lily [SS#XXX-X9-3577].

Analysis: Threat of physical violence against Irrelevant id:Rodriguez, Lily [SS#XXX-X9-3577] is at 88%. Probability of fatality occurring is at 2.08%. Conclusion: Irrelevant id:Rodriguez, Lily [SS#XXX-X9-3577] does not require interference should the status quo be maintained and therefore does not qualify for Project Contingency (Everyone Is Relevant).

Initialising simulation, option 9710 selected.

Adjusting simulated time frame by 13 seconds compared to previous simulation.

Override parameters for Project Contingency (Everyone Is Relevant) for Irrelevant id:Rodriguez, Lily [SS#XXX-X9-3577]. Reclassify Irrelevant id:Rodriguez, Lily [SS#XXX-X9-3577] as Project Contingency (Everyone Is Relevant) applicable.

Contacting Admin.

Run simulation.

Harold lingers in the doorway to their office, intent on watching John walk down the hallway until he loses sight of him, when one of the burner phones chimes from the drawer of his desk. The one he keeps in the library so there is no need to leave it to pass by a payphone on days they are more busy than usual. It occurs to him that he ought to feel irritation, after all it has been a rather taxing day and he could use some rest. Instead, he relaxes at the thought of getting to spend the rest of the evening in his partner's company.

“Mr Reese?” he calls down the hallway and John stops immediately. “It seems we aren't going to get off that lightly tonight after all.”

The brief, delighted smile has already been hidden behind a smaller, more neutral smirk by the time John has turned around enough for Harold to see his expression, so Harold remains oblivious to the fact that he experiences the same sentiment.

“New number already?”

“That does appear to be the case.”

“Seems a bit back to back, don't you think?”

“Ah yes, the true problem with the criminal element: the staggering lack of consideration for decent work hours. Would you like me to broach the topic with the felons' union?” he deadpans, but there is no bite in his tone. It makes John grin and his corners of his own mouth quirk upwards in response.

Shrugging his coat off and putting it back on the hanger, he then limps over to his desk, knowing John is hurrying to his side even though, ever the spy, his footsteps are barely audible. The Machine begins speaking the moment he answers the call.

“Mimicry. Dance. Window. Thunderstorm. Echo. Amaryllis.”

John joins him by the shelves as he finds the corresponding books and even hands him the ones on the higher shelves when he points them out to him. It brings him close enough that underneath the smells of a busy day, he catches the subtle, pleasant scent of the aftershave Harold bought for him. He only just keeps from breathing in more deeply to appreciate it. Or from leaning back when he feels John's body heat all along his back, close but not touching.

He remains close as Harold sits down and types the number into one of his programs. It takes but a few seconds, then a window opens with the image of a driver's license. The woman in the picture is in her mid fifties and looks to be Hispanic, with kind, dark eyes behind rim-less glasses and curly, greying hair cut to shoulder length. A quick internet search returns her website.

“Lily Rodriguez, 56.” he reads out loud, even though he knows John would merely need to turn his head to read the information himself. But there is comfort in routine. “PhD in psychology, more specifically systemic psychology. She has her own office in Brooklyn, for marriage and couples' counselling, specialising in LGBT+ couples.”

A few more clicks reveal her social media accounts. There is more information than average, given her age, though not unusually much either.

“Her parents are deceased, no siblings, her only family seems to be her daughter from her first marriage, her husband died in a car accident in '03, caused by a drunk driver. For the last four years, she has been living with her girlfriend Melinda Mayer and –“ He can't help but smile when the picture loads and in the corner of his eyes, he sees John wearing a matching expression. The photo couldn't be more colourful, the background filled with rainbow flags, balloons and glitter colouring the very air, Dr Rodriguez, her girlfriend, and her daughter grinning brightly into the camera, wearing matching pride outfits. “her daughter seems very supportive.” He scrolls further down. “Few friends, though they all seem to be very close ones, and she is well-respected by her peers. Her finances are stable and don't suggest anything unusual either.”

“She doesn't seem like a perp. And I'm guessing the threat's probably not coming from her social circle. Disgruntled Client? Hate crime?”

The last two words he spits out with bitterness, as though they're disgusting to him and Harold fully agrees, though sadly they are a possibility they have to consider.

“She appears to be rather good at her job, if her Yelp reviews are any indication.” Next, he pulls up her phone records and frowns. “According to several texts she sent, she has received four anonymous, threatening letters in the past week at her office. She hasn't decided whether to involve the police yet and is keeping them in her office in the meantime.”

“So I'm doing a little B&E?”

“Mr Reese, I believe you're generally not supposed to make felonies sounds like a hobby.”

John shrugs and grins. “Well, they're generally more fun than stakeouts.”

Harold sends him a look that conveys how questionable he finds his definition of fun and gets a faux-innocent one in return.

“In any case, I don't think either should be necessary for the moment.” A few keystrokes later, and a new window opens on the leftmost monitor. “Why do people never change their Wi-Fi passwords from the factory default.” he mutters under his breath.

The window shows the feed from their number's SmartTV. Dr Rodriguez and Ms Mayer are cuddled on their couch together, watching a movie, sharing a blanket and a bowl of fruit salad and for a brief second, he can't help but imagine what it might be like to have something akin to this with John. He turns to his partner, who is waiting patiently for directions.

“She seems quite safe for now and I can keep an eye on her from here, after all we do usually do get twenty-four to forty-eight hours notification in advance. You've had a strenuous day, you should go home to get some rest. I'd rather not have you put yourself at risk due to something as easily avoidable as sleep deprivation.” The full truth would be that he'd rather not have John putting himself at risk at all and that with every gunshot, with every half-suppressed noise of pain through his earpiece and especially with every time he loses his connection to him, Harold's heart clenches with mindless terror, but Harold is all too aware that telling him so would make his inappropriate feelings towards his employee far too obvious.

Even so, John is frowning and Harold already knows he won't leave. “You need sleep too, you can't stay here all night and keep an eye on her. You're not your Machine, Finch. And I've been on much longer missions for the Agency.”

“If you'd care to recall, you no longer work for the CIA. And I'd like to think that your working conditions here are an improvement.”

“Fine. I'll take the back room, you get the first shift and I'll take over in a few hours so you can get some sleep.” He presents Harold with his most charming smile. “I'll even get you breakfast in bed tomorrow, if you want.”

Harold would be lying if he were to claim to be entirely unaffected by that smile, or by the awareness that despite the teasing tone, the offer is sincere. “I suppose I won't be able to convince you to simply go home? And I do appreciate the sentiment, but there really is no need for that.”

“No more than I could convince you. So if B&E's off the table, I take it you have another plan to get our hands on those letters?”

_“_ Naturally.” he answers with more confidence than he feels. It really is their best option to both get some much needed rest tonight, and stay close to Dr Rodriguez tomorrow and hopefully acquire the letters, which seem to be their best lead on the threat. But he can't suppress the dread he feels at the thought of doing something that will undoubtedly hit very close to home. “In addition to being a skilled counsellor, our number does seem to be a good business woman as well. Appointments have to be booked months in advance, but she also sees clients outside of her normal consultation hours on short notice. For an appropriately sized surcharge, of course. Our appointment is tomorrow at 6.30pm.”

“Aw, Finch, you really think we need counselling? Maybe we should just try spicing up our sex life first.”

Harold decides not to dignify this with a response, though judging by John's gleeful smirk, the warmth he feels on his cheeks and ears is definitely visible. “You should get some rest. I would prefer not to make the impression that I am impacting my partner's physical well-being negatively.”

Said partner's smirk widens and his body undulates, muscles going lax yet still displayed attractively and his voice drops into a playfully lascivious bedroom whisper. “I'm sure you'd find a way to tire me out that has a positive impact on my well-being.”

Thoughts regarding a spiced up sex life and pleasurable ways to tire John out are shoved into a dark corner of his mind and locked away tightly in the futile hope they might stay there, as Harold raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “Good night, Mr Reese.” he dismisses, gentle but firm.

Surely it must be a trick of the light that for a fraction of a second, John's face falls with something that might almost look like a mixture of disappointment and longing. Then the smirk simply turns into a softer, amused smile. “Night, Harold.”

He doesn't turn around to watch John walk away, but his eyes do stray to the faint reflection of him on the monitor until he rounds the corner towards the room in the back. Refocusing after shaking his head at his own behaviour, he accesses the surveillance cameras outside Dr Rodriguez and Ms Mayer's apartment. Adjusting the angle gives him an excellent view through their window and of the entrance to the building.

Keeping an eye on the feeds, he settles in to try and dig up more information about their number and her social circle, thought there isn't all that much to find and definitely nothing out of the ordinary. As expected, the daughter is most active on social media, but again, there isn't anything that suggests she may be the type to get in trouble.

No hint of a lead other than the threatening letters. Nothing that could mean there might be a better plan than to visit a counsellor, forcing him to pretend to be in love with John while also hiding the fact that he really is desperately in love with him. The urge to groan and bang his head against his desk in frustration is mounting by the second.

With one more look at the feeds to assure himself that their number is safe for the moment – she and her girlfriend have relocated to the bedroom now and the latter is reading while Dr Rodriguez has fallen asleep with her arm around her – he gets up. It takes a moment for the muscles in his leg to loosen up. As much as he may hate to admit it and would prefer to let John have his full night's sleep to rest up properly after the last number he knows John is right. He will need some sleep as well.

Knowing no one – save perhaps the Machine – will see, he allows his limp to become heavier than usual as he makes his way to the kitchenette down the hall for a small snack and a cup of tea. Something warm and tender spreads through his chest when the moment he arrives, he sees the Thermos of freshly made tea next to a small plate of sandwiches on the kitchen counter. He considers making something for John in return, but is unsurprised to find a second plate stored in their small fridge, anyhow, he should get back to his surveillance.

Even so, he pauses when he passes the open door of the back room. Unobserved, he allows the wide smile the offerings gave him to gentle, to grow soft and warm and tender, even if he is all too aware of how besotted he must look right now. Precisely as besotted as he _is_.

In the light falling through the open doorway, he can see John's sleeping form curled up on the bed, on top of the comforter and still wearing his full suit, including his shoes. Harold shakes his head in fond exasperation. That he finds the sight utterly endearing rather than irksome is only further proof of just how far gone he is.

As quietly as he can, he sets the plate and the Thermos down on the nearest bookshelf and steps into the room. It's a testament to how much trust John has for him – a humbling thought that makes Harold's heart speed with a quiet, proud joy – that he merely stirs for a moment before subconsciously recognising Harold's distinctive, uneven gait and settling back down, sleeping peacefully once more.

The bedside table's drawer opens and closes silently when Harold takes the spare, cashmere blanket from it and John doesn't so much as twitch when he spreads it over him, merely letting out a content sounding sigh as he carefully tucks it around him. And then, the corners of his lips twitch upwards and he mumbles “Har’ld.” and for a moment, Harold has the almost overwhelming urge to simply lay down, crawl underneath the blanket with him and let his body heat lull him to sleep.

It takes more effort than he cares to admit to step back and resist the temptation to press a kiss to his temple, and he practically flees the room. Yet, he finds himself lingering in the doorway for yet another moment.

“Sleep well, my dear.” he whispers into the room before he can stop himself, so quietly that it's barely audible to even himself.

Shaking his head at himself this time and silently scolding himself – because really, acting like a lovesick fool at his age... – he hurries back to his desk and sits down with a sigh. On the monitor, Lily and Melinda are sleeping soundly in each other's arms. He tries not to envy them.

Taking a sip from the tea – of course it's absolutely perfect, just the way he likes it, as turn the sandwiches out to be – he tries to let himself be absorbed by task of gathering more information on their number, this time focussing on her clients, figuring out which ones might have reason to hold a grudge or could be responsible for or connected to the threat in other ways. Every so often, he gets distracted by the sight of the surveillance feed and the involuntary image of what it might be like to sleep entwined with John like this, but he pushes those thoughts firmly aside and the list of possible suspects grows slowly but steadily.

By the time he hears John's steps behind him, there is a sizeable number of pictures of possible suspects on their board.

“You've been busy.” John has obviously changed into one of the spare suits since the one he slept in must be wrinkled beyond salvation by now, but his hair is still mussed and wet at the tips from his recent shower and his voice sleep rough, giving the moment something achingly domestic. He smells of Harold’s own shampoo.

“I've run rudimentary background checks on our number's current clients, as well as her former ones from the last two years, which I hope should be sufficient. These“ he gestures vaguely towards the pictures, “are the ones who might be possible threats, I've organised them into categories. Those with previous charges of minor violent crimes on the top left, possible domestic abusers on the bottom left, and everyone generally dissatisfied with Dr Rodriguez' services on the right. The bottom row have violent former partners or homophobic family members with a history of violent behaviour. I'm afraid without any specific evidence it's difficult to narrow them down, but perhaps I could...” He is interrupted by a sudden yawn.

“Harold.” John admonishes him gently, with a hint of amusement, and a warm hand on Harold’s shoulder. “Go. Sleep.”

“Yes.” he concedes, yawning once more. “Yes, I suppose I should.”

Standing up is an even more painful affair than hours earlier and he only just manages to suppress the groan, although not his slight grimace. Or by the worry on John's face, perhaps not so slight after all. Giving him a reassuring smile, he reaches for the now empty Thermos and plate.

“Thank you for these, that was very thoughtful, not to mention delicious!”

Something he hadn't even been aware of until now loosens in his chest as the worry in John's eyes dims, drowned out by a glowing smile at the praise. Their fingers brush when John reaches out to prevent him from picking the items up.

“I'll take care of it. Get some rest.”

Too tired to protest, Harold finds himself simply nodding. “Yes, thank you.” he murmurs before starting to limp his way over towards the back room. John's playful “Sweet dreams, Harold!” follows him out.

There is a small en suite next to the back room and he goes through the motions automatically, quickly brushing his teeth and washing his face before taking off his suit – he too keeps several spares here, but he won't mistreat it by sleeping in it. He pauses for a moment when he hangs it up properly, staring at the contents of the wardrobe they share here. The right side is filled with his clothes, the left with John's. A feeling of _home_ floods him at the sight, stronger than he can remember feeling in years, and it seems to fold around his mind, warm and comforting. He decides that putting on pyjamas is not worth the effort when his undershirt and underwear will do perfectly fine as well.

When he finally lies down after taking off his glasses and placing them next to his phone on the bedside table, it's on top of the comforter, merely pulling the cashmere blanket over himself and he could swear he can still feel a hint of body heat conserved in it. The pillow smells faintly of John's shampoo and aftershave and he can't resist breathing deeply to catch more of the comforting scent. He is too tired to fight the content smile that curves his lips. Perhaps he might just have sweet dreams indeed. Within seconds, Harold is fast asleep.

Four too short hours later, he is pulled to wakefulness by the alarm on his phone. He tries to cling to the pleasant images of his dream for a moment longer – sitting warm and comfortable in John's arms on a sofa while the TV in front of them plays security footage and a swarm of blackbirds fly underneath the ceiling, their song sounding oddly like traffic, though of course none of that had seemed strange to him while asleep – but they slip from his memory's grasp all too soon.

Now that the haze of sleep is truly starting to fade, he regrets falling asleep before taking the time to adjust the pillow properly. His neck twinges in protest as he moves to turn the alarm off. The floor is cold underneath his feet when he limps into the bathroom for a quick shower. Undressing is, as always, an uncomfortable affair in the morning, his muscles stiff from having tensed up over night.

When he finally steps into the shower, the hot water running over his skin feels heavenly, allowing his muscles to relax and clearing the last of the cobwebs from his mind, though he does mourn the last, lingering sense of loving comfort, left over from the dream like an aftertaste, it washes away with them.

A part of him is tempted to remain under the warm spray a little longer, but his sense of responsibility is wide awake as well by now and disabuses him of the notion, so he awkwardly leaves the shower, trying not to slip on the wet tiles, with only a small hint of regret. The towel he grabs to dry himself with is still slightly damp from its previous user, but he didn't think of bringing another one from the wardrobe, so he does his best to ignore this observation.

Having shaved and brushed his teeth, he returns to the back room to dress, feeling more and more himself, more ready to face whatever this day will have in store for him – for them – with every piece of clothing he puts on, though it hasn't rid him of the sense of dread when he thinks about his plan entirely. But there is nothing for it. The door makes just the slightest scratching noise when he opens it.

Walking towards his main workstation, he feels a twinge of panic when he finds the room empty and, looking at every window of surveillance footage on the monitors, so does the apartment of their number seem to be, even though several lights are still on. His leg protests as he hurries over to it and lets himself fall into his chair, one hand already settling on the keyboard, accessing more of the surrounding area's cameras, the other reaching for his phone and earpiece. John wouldn't let anything happen to Lily Rodriguez, Harold knows that. But it would be just like him to go out into the field without waking Harold, without anyone to watch over him or call for backup, even provide it if needed...

In his single-minded, worried focus, he doesn't notice John approaching and startles when he hears that gruff voice close behind him.

“They're okay, Finch, just taking a shower. Thought as long as hickies are their biggest threat, I'd make you some breakfast.” he says, placing a tray on the table. It's a shabby looking old thing and Harold briefly wonders where he might have dug it up before being distracted by its contents and the delightful smells.

The mug of tea is almost expected, but there is also a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast and a small bowl of fruit salad. He stares at John. “Not that I don't appreciate this, but it really wasn't necessary for you to go to all this trouble, Mr Reese.” He cringes inwardly at the unintentionally almost accusatory tone, but John merely grins.

“Just trying to be an attentive boyfriend, Finch. Wouldn't want the doc to get a wrong impression. Now, I hope you're not planning on letting all my trouble go to waste.”

“Have you eaten already?” he asks, just before taking a bite. He thinks he sees John nod before his eyes close involuntarily and a soft groan of pleasure escapes him as the flavour hits his tongue. He doesn't catch John staring heatedly, too occupied with inhaling the next two forkfuls. “I think you might have missed your calling as a chef.”

The operative clears his throat audibly. “Give me a raise, and I'll let you hire me as your personal chef, at your beck and call. You'd have to tell me where you live though.”

Side-eyeing him, Harold raises an eyebrow. “A very tempting thought. Though as I've said before, if you want a raise, you merely need to ask.”

On the screen, the bathroom door opens and Lily and Melinda step back into their bedroom, laughing and exchanging pecks, so Harold types a few, quick commands, turning the computer in the corner into a listening device and shutting off its camera. A certain level of intrusion on their numbers' privacies is unavoidable, but he can at least make an effort to keep it to a minimum. The women's soft laughter and banter fills the library as Harold finishes his breakfast, John flipping through a book on robotics next to him and Harold feels content, wishing this moment could last for hours but cherishing the minutes it does.

All too soon, the tea is gone and the mug is empty, Harold gives him the address and John puts on his coat, hurrying to the exit so he can arrive in time to trail her once Dr Rodriguez leaves for work. The library seems too silent in the moments between John leaving and Harold's earpiece crackling to life. He doesn't realise how he has tensed up until he relaxes again the moment he hears John's breathing, his footsteps, the traffic in the background.

He keep busy by keeping an eye on the number in the meantime, while also tracking John's progress through the city and once more attempting to find more clues regarding the threat, even if the search is as fruitless as the previous night. With a sigh he glances at the pictures of possible subjects. Some are stuck further to the side, those that John obviously ruled out, but there are still too many and none who stands out. Not without further evidence.

A small pop-up alerts him that John has successfully cloned the number's phone and Harold runs a quick search for phrases associated with potential violent behaviour or feeling threatened. There are several more mentions of the letters and quite the number of 8 months old texts from the daughter after a nasty break-up. The forms of pain she had wished on her ex at the time are rather creative, Harold has to admit, but hardly relevant. He taps his earpiece.

“I don't suppose you've noticed anyone following Dr Rodriguez or behaving suspiciously around her?”

John laughs. “You sound bored, Finch.”

“Bored, no. But assuming our perpetrator is the author of the threatening letters, whoever the are, they seem rather frustratingly adverse to using digital methods, so I don't think I'll be of all that much use for now.”

“You know, you could always join me out here. The weather's lovely for a little stalking.”

“Yes, because I would be _such an asset_ when it comes to climbing up and down various rooftops. And I feel like I should be concerned that you have enough experience with stalking to have a preferred weather. Speaking of, there is a forecast for some light rain within in a few hours, I hope you're dressed appropriately?”

Warning: Time running low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I hope you liked this chapter, and that maybe, you'll leave me a comment? I live on comments :D


	5. In which professional counsel is imposed [Part 2]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being a little late with this, I've hit a bit of a writing slump and am taking a bit of a break in hopes of avoiding a full-on writing block (because I really, _really_ hate those).  
>  Admittedly, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I hope it'll suffice.

Separation between Admin and id:Reese, John for tonight imminent.

Simplify simulation.

“[Teasing remark on Admin's concern and reassurance regarding Admin's usefulness in the field, hiding genuine desire for his company.]”

Admin remains unaware of aforementioned desire despite sharing it. “[Sarcastic inquiry after Primary Asset requiring assistance.]”

“[Mock-offended retort.]”

“[Dry observation of past miscalculations, disguising amusement.]”

“[Overt flirtation.]”

“[Deadpan response, followed by admonishment to focus on the mission.]”

“[Relevant observation, delivered with innuendo.]”

“[Exasperated but fond conveyance of intention to investigate further, deliberately ignoring innuendo.]”

“[Another innuendo.]”

“[Mock-stern signoff.]”

Several minutes of silence while Admin attempts to obtain more information.

Primary Asset answers the moment he hears the line open via his earpiece. “[Playfully conversational greeting.]”

“[Efficient relay of new information.]”

“[Acknowledgement, followed by transition to discuss their background story for the coming appointment in a teasing manner.]”

“[Topic relevant factoid or literary quote as somewhat reluctant acquiescence to topic change.]”

The next few hours are filled with this discussion, intermitted by short breaks of various purposes and further research. Eventually assent is reached and the conversation tapers off to more conventional topics, with frequent flirtation and deliberately thinly disguised inquiries for personal information about Admin from Primary Asset, which Admin reflects with wry humour.

Approximately an hour and a half before their appointment, Admin leaves the library to stop by one of their preferred take out restaurants to pick up meals for both of them. He joins Primary Asset at his chosen vantage point where they share a very late lunch/very early dinner, both pretending not to enjoy one another's physical company quite as much as they do. Admin remarks on how sub-par their food is compared to John's cooking skills and doesn't notice Primary Asset's blinding smile.

Once finished eating, they dispose of the empty containers and cross the street to ring the doorbell of the Irrelevant's office.

Return to full simulation.

Sitting in Dr Rodriguez' waiting room, Harold does his best to prevent his rising discomfort from showing all too obviously. Beside him, John looks considerable calmer even if not entirely comfortable either. However, he is as alert as he always is when they're working a number and seems rather amused at Harold's tension. The latter is a fact Harold does not appreciate, or so he'd like to tell himself, even if the hint of a smile playing around the corners of John's lips is a fairly comforting sight.

“Relax, Finch. I know you're not the sharing is caring type, but I don't think you looking like you want to run away's gonna help our cover here.” Yet, he must be putting even more effort into his calm veneer, since his voice carries the exact same tension. It is that observation that makes his words somewhat less reassuring than they might have been otherwise. Harold shoots him a sceptical glance.

“Oh, I doubt I would be the first person in this waiting room looking like they're wishing to be anywhere else.”

“Told you we should've tried being more adventurous in bed first.” John teases with that infuriating smirk of his and Harold side-eyes him sternly. Because really, those images are not the least bit helpful, not that Harold would tell him so unless his life depended on it. And even then only with hesitation and reluctance.

Before he can voice the retort lying on the tip of his tongue, the door opens, sending a wave of both dread and – unexpectedly – relief through him. Dread, for obvious reasons, relief since he now finally has to give their chosen role and this case his full concentration, leaving little room for more personal concerns.

Lily Rodriguez smiles at them, professional but warm and inviting, opening the door to her office widely. “Misters Davis and Dunlin?”

When Harold hesitates, still caught in his inner turmoil, John stands and shakes her hand with his most charming smile, giving Harold time to fully collect himself and rise at a pace his bad leg is more forgiving of.

“Please, call me John.”

“Harold.” He says simply when she turns towards him once he stands, purposely allowing some of his nervousness to bleed into his smile.

The office is rather tastefully furnished, the walls an unobtrusive, warm shade of beige with dark brown, modern but elegant furniture and quite the number of plants to liven up the room, as well as giving it a calming atmosphere. A print of an impressionistic painting is hung up on the wall behind the main desk in the corner, obviously carefully chosen for its colours to blend into the room, rather than catch the eye.

Instead of turning towards the desk, Dr Rodriguez ushers them towards a two-seater couch at the side of the room once they've hung up their coats, gesturing for them to take a seat while she herself sits in a chair opposite of them, picking up a notepad and pen from the small coffee table between them.

There is plenty of room on the couch, but John sits a little more towards the middle than necessary and Harold follows suit. They're close enough for him to feel John's warmth radiate from him and although he tells himself this closeness is merely for the sake of their cover, a small, traitorous part of him cannot help but enjoy it as he always does.

“So, what brings you here today?”

A simple, neutral, non-specific opening question just as expected. Excellent. The meaningful look John sends him is very convincing and raising an eyebrow in response feels almost natural.

“You're the one who wanted to come here.” John prompts, as discussed.

“I merely suggested it since you implied that simply talking about dissents on our own wouldn't resolve them. A suggestion which, if I might remind you, you agreed with.”

“I thought you wanted this.”

“Then what is it _you_ want, John? You never tell me!”

The smirk John gives him is even more openly suggestive than his usual ones, and Harold wants to preemptively groan at the impending innuendo. John doesn't disappoint. “Pretty sure I did tell you last night. I remember you had me begging pretty quick, actually.”

This time, raising his eyebrow is _entirely_ natural. It is a rather elegant deflection, he has to admit, and probably one that their number has seen being used many times, thus it supports their cover, but nonetheless he has to forcefully squash the childish impulse to stick his tongue out at John. He ignores the awareness that he most likely wouldn't be nearly as irritated if it didn't succeed in flustering him.

“I would appreciate it if the more private aspects of our relationship would indeed be kept private.” he tells him drily and watches from the corner of his vision how Dr Rodriguez leans forward to interrupt them.

“Discretion and respecting clients' privacy is one of the highest priorities, in this profession and for me personally. This is a place where you can speak about anything you need to. But regardless, I'm getting the impression the problems in your relationship aren't in that area anyway?”

Harold can't help his fondly amused huff when faced with the Cheshire grin John gives first him and then their number, who can't quite hide her own amusement behind her professional veneer. He hopes she'll never attempt to play poker.

When John's face falls, it's as if his vanishing smile takes all the light in the room with it and he finds himself missing it, even though his eyes still shine with well hidden mirth when he quickly glances back over to Harold.

John sighs. “It's just... Harold's always so secretive...”

“As I told you when we met, I'm merely...”

“...a very private person, I know. And I don't mind, really, I don't. But there's being private and there's...” he makes an all-encompassing hand gesture towards Harold and turns back to Dr Rodriguez. “Sometimes we don't see each other for days and I never know what he's doing. He has several phones, kept his own apartment where I've never been, I don't even know the address.”

“John, I simply don't see the relevance when the only place I truly consider my home is with you.” The words are out – too quick, too sincere – before he quite realises to what he just confessed, and when he does it sends his heart racing. His partner must pick up on his sudden tension because a hint of concern enters his gaze, but he doesn't miss a beat and keeps following their rough script once Harold makes a conscious effort to relax.

“Harold we've been together for almost two years now and I still don't even know what your favourite food is. There's just so much you're hiding...”

He remembers all the times John has tried to guess or glean any kind of such trivial information hears the statement for the reassurance it truly is. _I'm with you, relax, you're safe_ and it's that clever reassurance more than the amusing memories that makes him want to smile.

“John,” Lily's gentle voice interrupts his thoughts, inquiring but carefully neutral. “is there something more that you think Harold is hiding from you? Are you afraid he might be having an affair?”

Finally Harold truly relaxes somewhat. She has reached the obvious conclusion, the one they'd intended for her to reach, everything is going according to plan. Now John will turn to him and ask him directly, voice soft but accusatory and he will deny it, to which John will respond by accusing him of lying and storming outside, leaving their number to calm him down while Harold is left alone in her office, searching for the...

John doesn't turn towards him. His voice is soft, but warm rather than reproachful. “No, of course not. Harold's not that kind of person, he wouldn't do that to me. To anyone.”

The _Mr Reese? What are you doing?_ lies on the tip of his tongue, as if they were only connected via phone rather than sitting on the same sofa, close enough to feel one another's warmth, as if John was doing something reckless in the field rather than merely throwing Harold for a bit of a loop.

He does his best to school his expression into a soft smile, loving enough to be convincing but not too much, so it might give his true feelings away. Hoping that he has calculated correctly, that John, despite his observant nature won’t notice that it is Harold’s heart he is laying bare just a little more than usual. Hiding the panic in his eyes from the number. In his distraction and surprise, he turns too abruptly for his neck as it's still stiff from the night and he can't suppress a small wince.

When John meets his gaze, his expression rapidly goes from apologetic to concerned and with only a moment's hesitation, he lifts the hand closest to Harold, letting it hover over his neck, waiting for Harold to permit or deny the touch. It goes against quite a few of his instincts, he does his best to hide the scars and barely even lets doctors touch them. The entire area is incredibly vulnerable and he wishes he could lie down somewhere alone and hide from the world until the throbbing pain has abated to its normal levels.

Yet the thought of refusing John barely crosses his mind and he tries to tell himself that it has more to do with keeping their cover and not with how he trusts John absolutely and with even the most vulnerable aspects of himself – be they physical or emotional – when he gives him a careful nod.

John's skin is too dry and rough with gun callouses – he makes a mental note to get a mail order for the best hand lotion he'll be able to find to John's apartment – but it is blissfully warm and the touch much too light to possibly hurt him. Soon enough, the warmth seeps into the cramping muscle and the support the touch offers takes even more strain from it, and the ache, one that would usually stay until the next morning at the very least, begins to fade.

John seems to notice as well, since he begins to carefully, oh so gently massage the abused region and Harold's eyes slip closed against his will as he helplessly leans further into the contact, against the hand that has broken more than one neck and could snap Harold’s with ease, against the hand that is so careful with him and takes the pain away. He doesn't even notice the soft sigh of relief he makes, the world fading around him. The only thought left in his mind is the wish that they could remain like this for hours.

“Better?” John asks quietly, pulling Harold back into reality, who forces his eyes back open. Dr Rodriguez is watching them patiently, a small smile playing around her lips.

“Yes, very much so, thank you.” He almost regrets saying so when John removes his hand, and his face heats upon hearing the noise of protest that escapes him involuntarily. But instead of withdrawing the touch entirely, John lets it ghost down his arm, leaving his hand resting against Harold's. It takes him a moment to work up the courage to do so, but when he entwines their fingers, John squeezes back and Lily's smile widens infinitesimally.

It feels like an anchor when John looks away, avoiding both their gazes like he is attempting to collect himself and when he finally meets his eyes again, there is an openness, a vulnerability in John's that makes Harold's breath catch and his heart ache.

“Harold, I just...” he breaks off, gaze flickering to the side again, swallows thickly. “I don't need to know everything about you, I... The only thing I _need_ to know is that you're safe.”

There is something... raw in his voice, something a little too honest for a cover in the way he refuses to meet Harold's eyes and Harold thinks of how John following him around the city started out as the operative's genuine desire to know more about his mysterious new employer. How it turned into something playful, one of their habits like John's no longer so subtle attempts to glean personal information. How it used to fuel his paranoia in the early days, whereas it now soothes it, how the knowledge of John being near by, watching him, makes him feel safe. There even is the temptation – one he doesn't like to admit to himself and keeps tightly in check – to let him follow, to deliberately be too slow in one of his attempts to slip away, to wait at home and bid John inside.

He tightens his grip on John's hand, though if it's as a reassurance to his partner or himself he doesn't know. Because he does know that need John spoke of. The frantic haze of panic that grips him whenever he hears gunshots via the earpiece, whenever he hears John let out a noise of pain, and it's at its worst whenever the feed between them cuts out.

“As much as I wish otherwise, in our line of work I'm afraid that's not something I can promise. No more than you could promise the same to me.”

“I know.” John's answer is so quiet and resigned it makes Harold's heart contract painfully. It makes him wish he could promise him the world. He is almost pathetically grateful when Dr Rodriguez carefully interrupts again.

“Can I ask, what line of work are you both in?”

Just like that, with a slightly deeper than usual breath – Harold can practically see his composure wrapping back around him – John slips back into his chosen persona for this case. So similar to his usual self, but softer, smoother around the edges and so much less jaded.

“Private security.”

That too isn't part of the background they discussed, though Harold figures their number is unlikely to check this information. And even if, there is nothing in her digital footprint to suggest that she is more technologically adept than she absolutely needs to be, so to believably set this up would take him mere minutes.

This worry is set aside in favour of a much more immediate one, namely how to steer the conversation in a direction that will still allow them to follow through on their initial plan.

“Does your workplace's policy allow relationships between coworkers?”

“I'd hope so. Harold owns the company.”

Lily gives a contemplating nod and pens down a quick note. “Is this a source of friction for you? Some people might see this as a conflict of interest, is that the case for either of you?”

“No.” John says firmly at the same moment as Harold says “Yes.”.

She turns towards him with polite, professional interest and Harold swallows, wishing he had denied it as well. Because just sometimes he thinks he catches John looking with a warmth in his eyes that possibly veers outside the realm of platonic affection. He does his best to ignore those instances, to push aside any thought of them because hope is the slowest, cruellest of poisons. But if he is being honest with himself, a small, foolish part of him is already infected with it and every now and then he finds himself forced to remind himself that he also has a responsibility towards John. John, who still refuses to meet his eyes.

“Well, I'd rather hope you don't feel there is cause for a sexual harassment suit.”

The quiet chuckle John gives sounds somehow _off_. “I doubt I'd have much of a legal leg to stand on here, since I'm the one doing all the flirting. Don't think I've been very subtle about it.”

“Be that as it may, that doesn't absolve me of my responsibilities to you as your employer!”

There must be something he is missing, because there is a tension running through John that even their most taxing numbers rarely give him and his tired sigh sounds far too genuine for Harold's comfort. He is abruptly reminded of how much human interaction frustrates him, a tendency John has somehow become exempt from most of the time and the contrast is all the more stark for it.

“I'm a grown man who can take care of himself, Harold!”

“Honestly, by the frequency with which you recklessly endanger yourself in the field I wouldn't have guessed!” he shoots back harshly before he can stop himself and John's hand twitches underneath his as if he wants to pull it away. The thought of losing that point of contact seems unbearable all of a sudden, so Harold tightens his hold, deliberately gentling his voice though the ruefulness in it is entirely too genuine.

“I apologise, I just... If something were to happen to you... I am the one who sends you out into the field, I'm the one who has to provide you with enough information and support for you to protect yourself, and every time I see you come back injured, every time I patch you up, I... We both are and were well aware that danger is par for the course in out chosen profession, but sometimes,” He takes a deep breath that does nothing to quiet the hum of panic that lives in the back of his mind whenever he finds himself forced to reveal something so intensely personal. A thought, a worry he hadn't expected to ever give voice to, because the mission always comes first. “sometimes I can't help but think that I may have done you an injustice when I hired you. Because you cannot deny that you were hardly in the frame of mind to make an informed, responsible decision at the time.”

Finally, John faces him again, grey-blue eyes filled with intensity and a strange urgency. “I don't regret it. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me and I'll never regret it. And if I die tomorrow I still won't. Without you, I would've eaten a bullet or taken a dive off the Brooklyn bridge within a week. Less, probably.”

There is a raw honesty there in his voice and in the wry little smile that accompanies the last two words, that threatens to rip a piece from his heart – probably the one that still wants to deny that John Reese has ever been this broken because it cannot stand the thought of his suffering. He wants nothing more than to acknowledge this the way it deserves, but the barely audible noise of their number's pen scraping over her notebook reminds him that this is neither the time nor the place. So with some regret, he gives John's hand another squeeze, caressing the back of it with his thumb, to communicate his intent to return to their previous albeit somewhat adjusted plan.

Still, the bitterness in his voice isn't as feigned as he wishes it were. “That's gratitude, John, not...” He makes himself finally release John's hand to vaguely gesture between them.

The other acknowledges him with a twitch of his lips into a minute facsimile of a smile, carefully angled away from Dr Rodriguez. “Gratitude? Really, Harold?”

He hopes the huff John's faux-scandalised tone draws from him doesn't sound too amused. “You have to admit, someone like you is hardly in my league. In fact, this should be glaringly obvious to anyone with the capacity for sight. And I may be near-sighted, but I'm not blind.”

“After two years, you still don't think that I just _want_ to be with you?”

“You might _think_ you...”

“So I'm confused, is that it? You think I don't know how I feel about you?” John declares dramatically.

“Well, quite frankly, there aren't all that many explanations left! Either this, indulgence, or your interest in me is of a more selfish nature.”

John's expression morphs into one of open outrage, one that the real John Reese would never wear, and Harold has to subtly pinch his own thigh to keep from grinning at the sight he makes. By the mirth sparkling in John's eyes, that move hasn't gone entirely unnoticed.

“Seriously, Harold? You think I'm after your money?”

“You have to admit, it's hardly an outlandish conclusion!”

Now John is shaking his head in a mixture of shock and disappointment, even though the corner of his mouth twitches upwards involuntarily while he gets to his feet. The look he gives Harold must look rather blazing to their number, who has tensed in her seat, probably contemplating whether she will need to interfere.

“I can't believe you sometimes!” John growls, then turns on his heel and stalks out of the office. The door slams shut with a bang behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you've still enjoyed this one? Comments are my lifeblood!


	6. In which progress is made [Part 3]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could it be possible that Harold is slowly getting a tiny bit of a clue??  
> I hope you'll enjoy this one!

For the sake of their cover, Harold allows himself a somewhat longing look towards where John just left his sight, before turning back towards Dr Rodriguez, who makes no move to follow John just yet. Now that they have returned to their original plan, Harold can breathe easier even if he does miss the reassurance of John's presence. He reminds himself sternly that his partner is only one room away.

Seconds pass in silence, with Dr Rodriguez looking at him expectantly. The recalcitrant part of him is tempted to let it drag on, but that would be rather counterproductive, so he sighs a moment after the silence begins to turn awkward.

“I'm sure you have some observation to make about this?”

She smiles at his quip, a little too jaunty to be neutrally polite. “Quite a number of them, even. But I'm much more interested in hearing your assessment first.”

His gaze slips off her and to the painting behind her desk as he pretends to think for a moment before looking back at her with an expression carefully kept somewhere in between wry and remorseful.

“I'd be lying if I were to claim that this is a matter that hasn't come up before, though obviously we haven't managed to fully resolve it.”

“Please be honest with me, Harold. Are you truly concerned that John is only with you for your wealth, or was that defensiveness?”

“The thought has crossed my mind and I can't rule it out entirely. But I like to think that I know him to be a better man than this. Certainly better than I deserve.”

“Why do you believe that?”

Harold finds himself swallowing thickly. Thinking of all the ways John is a better man than him, of how much he cares for the numbers and how willing he is to risk and potentially lay down his life for strangers. Of how he only buys the bare necessities for himself while the rest of his salary is allocated to various charities. Of every time he showed mercy when Harold was watching him long before they officially met. Of the countless little niceties and kindnesses Harold's days are filled with, of the late night snack the previous night and tea in the morning, how the library may be cluttered but miraculously never messy, how the bottle of painkillers he keeps in the kitchenette appears just within his reach on his desk whenever he needs it most. Of how he...

He laughs quietly, humourlessly. “If I were to list all the reasons, we would be sitting here for a  _ very _ long time.”

Dr Rodriguez remains silent for a moment, giving him the opportunity to change his mind or so he assumes, before she nods. “What would you like to talk about instead?”

“If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to hear your assessment of the situation.”

“Alright.” She glances down at her notes, then she leans back, crossing her legs and tilting her head, scrutinising him. “This might sound a bit like armchair psychology, but let me assure you, clichés like these tend to be founded in reality. I think you're afraid, and your need for privacy in even the most intimate relationships is a symptom of that. You're very used to being self-sufficient and in turn unused to allowing people in. I think that John genuinely loves you and that a part of you, conscious or subconsciously, knows that, but you find ways to explain the evidence away so you can justify keeping your distance to yourself. You said you feel like John deserves someone better than you and earlier you mentioned that if something were to happen to him it would be your responsibility.”

As much as it irks him, he can't help but break eye contact. He tries to push them aside, but he knows her words are getting to him and that the part of him that hopes against hope is drinking them up greedily. They plant a seed of doubt in his usual thought process, a hairline fracture in his world view, the one where as much as he knows John cares for him, he could never fall in love with a socially inhibited old cripple like him. He wishes they didn't.

The countless memories John's teasing flirtation seem as clear as if he were wearing his earpiece, John's voice rasping one thing or another that makes him smile and the phantom sensation of his earlier touches – the hand blissfully massaging his neck, the fingers entwined with his own – tingles like electricity on his skin.  _ It's merely a cover _ , he reminds himself harshly.

He almost sighs in relief when Dr Rodriguez chooses this moment to pull him from his thoughts.

“Is this something that happened to you before? Did you lose someone close to you in a way you believe to be your responsibility?”

He could lie, he thinks. A cover doesn't necessarily require truths, especially not one he'll work under so briefly, and yet... “My best friend. And my fiancée.”

The nod she gives him is the exact same one he was presented with at his previous attempt at therapy after the bombing, somewhere between contemplative and understanding and he interrupts her before she can get the first word out.

“Let me guess, this is the point at which you tell me that it wasn't my fault.”

“No, Harold. It's not my place to tell you that, not without knowing the full story. And besides, whether or not it actually was your responsibility, that currently has no influence on the guilt you're obviously feeling. Emotions don't care about reasons or rationality, whatever caused them, they are real to you in any case and they affect you just the same even if they sometimes or even often  _ are _ irrational.”

Where in previous, similar situation, he has always found this type of professional calm irritating and even patronising, it's now strangely comforting. Or perhaps it's the simple acknowledgement he receives instead of the expected barrage of unfounded assumptions. In either case, he suddenly remembers the glowing Yelp reviews and for a moment empathetically agrees.

“Me saying this probably doesn't come as a surprise to you,” she continues, still professional but with a hint of genuine, rueful sympathy, “but I do think you should consider seeking counselling for this matter. Not necessarily with me, but I can refer you to someone with a lot more expertise in this particular field.”

He smiles politely and gives it a token moment of consideration before giving her the answer she is so obviously already expecting. “Thank you, but I don't think I'm really the type for therapy, if my previous experiences are any indication.”

She looks unsurprised. “Professionally, I'd say no one is the wrong type for therapy, there's only the wrong type of therapist. But experience has taught  _ me _ that if someone isn't ready to attempt that road, it won't be of much use to them anyway, and pushing that person too much tends to be counterproductive. Still, I hope you'll reconsider, whenever it might be. There is no deadline for matters of mental health and I do think you would benefit from therapy.

But I digress, as much as your personal history might be tangled up in your relationship problems, the latter is why you're really here. I think for now it would help you to try and acknowledge when and how you explain the evidence of John's love for you away. Once you can identify how you try to rationalise these instances, you'll be able to start deconstructing your own arguments and over time, that will help you feel much more emotionally secure in your relationship. Treat it like a mental exercise, if that helps you. It won't be easy, especially not at first, but you'll see that it becomes routine quicker than you think. And you have no reason not to be patient with yourself. I might not have had a lot of time to observe you two yet, but it's already clear that John will wait for you, however long it takes. He does love you very much.”

She doesn't give him the opportunity to reply before she gets up and heads for door with a jaunty smile. “Speaking of John, I think he's had enough time to cool off, wouldn't you agree?”

A rhetorical question, because the moment she finishes speaking, the door is already closing behind her, leaving Harold staring at it, mouth half opened and his retort dying unspoken on his tongue.

A clever strategy, he has to admit, leaving him to stew over her advice. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to remember that he is here on a case and finally alone in her office, their plan coming into fruition and he hastily slips his earpiece in though predictably, the connection isn't established for the moment.

Sitting on the comfortable but too soft couch has made his leg tense up and he grimaces at the spasm running through it once he straightens it. Unbidden, the sense memory of John's hand on his neck, relieving him of the pain, rises to the forefront of his mind again, where Dr Rodriguez' words still echo. Leaning more weight onto his bad leg which makes the throbbing flare up again does chase the echo away for a moment, but ultimately it only succeeds in making him imagine John's touch on his hip, gently caressing and massaging the damages tissue until there too the pain would die down to a barely more than unpleasant background hum.

He would merely need to ask, it occurs to him, and John wouldn't even hesitate to do so.  _ He does love you very much. _ His neck seems to have a little more mobility than usual when he shakes it in exasperation at himself.

Limping over to the desk at the other side of the room, he forces himself to focus on the task at hand. The desk has four drawers the left side, two – one small and a larger one – on the right and another one directly underneath the tabletop. The surface is fairly organised, containing a small cactus, a jar of pens though several pens are scattered over it, a spare, empty notebook and a colourful assortment of flyers. The computer monitor is rather out of date and its large edges are covered in post-it notes, none of them saying anything that seems to be of particular importance, so he averts his eyes from the mildly offending sight, turning his attention to the drawers.

When he tries the handles, he finds every single one of them locked and allows a sigh of irritation to leave him. Hopefully John will be able to keep their number distracted until Harold can confirm that he has found the letters. Although his lock picking skills have improved considerably through practice and John's tutoring –  _ John stepping closely behind him as Harold sits in the library with a padlock in his hands, reaching around him and covering Harold's hand with his own to guide his movements, murmuring advice and huffing out a laugh at Harold's dry quips – _ so he hopes he will be able to make quick work of this.

He shoves the memory aside and fishes his wallet from his pocket, ripping out the slim lock-picking kit kept inside. The motion is too rough and two lock picks fall to the ground with a soft chink.

With the frustration for his own distraction distracting him further, it takes him longer than he hoped to open the first drawer – the large one on the right – and he is unsurprised to find it containing Dr Rodriguez' patient files. He decides to leave it open, John will tell him when he can't stall for much longer but if luck wills it, he might have an opportunity to take a closer look at them.

The other drawer on the right yields to his efforts much easier, but only reveals bills and receipts and a small box of paper clips. As he picks the lock of the drawer underneath the table top, there is once again routine in his movements. He flicks through the stacks of empty papers inside, as well as the spare flyers, but again, his search is fruitless.

The top drawer on the left holds more spare pens, a phone charger and a box of sweets. It's in the second one from the top that he finally makes his find and a triumphant little smile steals itself onto his face as he pulls out the four letters. The smile quickly morphs into distaste as soon as he begins skimming through the contents of the letters.

They are printed rather than handwritten, and filled with sexist and homophobic obscenities and grammatical errors –  _ does no one value proper punctuation anymore _ – as well as vague accusations and detailed threats. It's probably a sound conclusion that the perpetrator is neither a former patient nor someone from Lily's social cycle, leaving a select few of the patients' jealous exes and homophobic relatives. He scans the letters and sends them to the library where he starts the appropriate programs remotely. Hopefully the analysis of vocabulary and syntax used will narrow their remaining field of suspects down considerably.

There is still only silence on the other end of his earpiece, so he pulls the rudimentary fingerprint kit from his other pocket and begins dusting the letter that had been kept below the others, carefully avoiding the places he himself touched. It comes of no surprise that the letter is covered in prints, most of which are smudged and most likely their number's anyway. He takes pictures of the clearest ones and sends them to Detective Fusco, with a short request to identify those not belonging to Dr Rodriguez.

The remaining powder finds its way into the paper bin underneath the desk. It's impossible to remove all of it from the paper, though hopefully what's left should be faint enough not to immediately attract Dr Rodriguez' attention. Even if she has turned out to be rather observant, at least regarding her assessment of his own emotional state. John's on the other hand...

_ Try and acknowledge when and how you explain the evidence of John's love for you away _ .

She doesn't have the full context of their relationship, he reminds himself, and John has years of experience in undercover work. And of course John cares about him, perhaps even loves him in a way, but that doesn't mean that he... does it?

He shuts that train of thought down firmly and ignores the slight acceleration of his heartbeat. There are much more pressing matters at hand than his own wishful thinking. John still hasn't alerted him to their return, so he opens the large drawer again, skimming over the names, finding the ones he remembers having connections to possible suspects. There aren't all that many, obviously Dr Rodriguez only keeps the files of her current patients here in her office.

He pulls the ones that fit his criteria out in alphabetical order, leafing through them before putting them back where they belong. The notes in them are unfortunately not all that extensive and rather disorganised so they yield little in terms of new information. If he had the time to read them thoroughly perhaps this would be more fruitful, but he doesn't and he doubts they hold anything he cannot glean through his usual methods.

The files rustle as he slides the drawer shut, kneeling down once more to lock it again. With another glance he confirms that there is no sign of his intrusion left and limps back over to the couch. A sigh of relief leaves him as finally, the weight is taken off his left leg, though he knows it won't be very forgiving the next time he gets back up.

Some dust from the floor is clinging to his slacks, he notes with displeasure, and he is careful to brush even the most persistent stain of it away. Only then does he acknowledge that he has been avoiding signalling John. Dr Rodriguez' observations – even based on flawed information as they are – have left him off kilter, with deep fault lines running through the firewalls around his heart and he wishes he could retreat to the library or one of his safe houses, where he has the solitude to rebuild them to his satisfaction.

Of course, his traitorous heart immediately provides him with the images of asking John along so he can spend the evening in his company instead. Perhaps John would cook for him again, after all he did offer...

He reaches up to tap his earpiece before he can continue this train of thought, which would undoubtedly lead back to their number's advice and the doubt it instils in him. There is a second of static, then he hears the familiar, soft crackle of the connection being established. He can hear Dr Rodriguez speaking softly in the background and for a moment, he thinks he hears his name, but he can't make out anything else.

“Mr Reese?” The formality and the distance it carries feels somehow out of place. “I found the letters and sent pictures of the content and fingerprints to Detective Fusco. I also have an algorithm running comparisons to writing samples from our possible suspects, that should hopefully narrow them down.”

There is a second's pause before John answers “Yeah, I know.” to one of their number's queries, hiding the acknowledgement of Harold's message in it.

Harold frowns when the connection cuts out a moment later and where he ought to feel relief at having a little longer to compose himself, there is only worry. Perhaps it’s merely the tension of the case leading him to read into things, but something about John’s tone seemed off to him. And undercurrent running through it that he cannot for the life of him identify, despite the countless hours spent listening to John, meticulously cataloguing the meaning of every inflection.

Churning on this, he absentmindedly pulls out his phone. The algorithm comparing text samples is still running and has so far only found one 49% and one 53% match. There is an acknowledgement from Detective Fusco, simultaneously expressing his displeasure at being given yet another task, but no result from the fingerprints just yet, not that he expected otherwise.

He’s halfway done hacking into Dr Rodriguez’ car’s GPS – a rather tedious task with only the screen of his phone to type on – but still no closer to a conclusion regarding the strange tension in John’s voice, when he hears footsteps approaching the office and he slips his phone back into his pocket as the door opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments make my crops flourish, my skin clear... you know how it goes :D


	7. In which progress is interrupted [Part 4]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again sorry for the slight delay. I finished another fic (I'll probably wait with posting that one, I'm cluttering the fandom enough as it is, plus it'll be a good exercise in self-restraint :P) yesterday and was too tired to edit this chapter afterwards.

Immediately, the worry is the most prevalent thing on his mind because every line of John’s body carries the same tension his voice did. There’s an unhappy twist to the corner of his mouth and his eyes flit around almost nervously, meeting Harold's for the shortest moments before flickering away again. It occurs to him to look at their number, whose expressive face could surely provide some answers, but he finds himself transfixed.

Just like the tone of his voice, the nervous energy that seems to have gripped John is not one Harold recognises, but from the moment he stepped back into the office, the room seems to be humming with it.

“John? Are you alright?” he asks softly, too softly, too worried.

Finally, John’s gaze flits back to his own and stays, but it does little to assuage his concern to see those grey-blue eyes so wide and vulnerable and the look in them to downright wounded. He doesn’t even notice himself standing up and the renewed spasm of pain running through his leg barely registers either. It’s when Harold takes a halting step towards him that John seems to come out of his own torpor.

With three large strides he has crossed the room, reducing the distance between them to a few inches and then to nothing at all, as John’s arms wind carefully yet tightly around him and for a moment, Harold's mind whites out in a mixture of confusion and bliss. Close as they are, he can hear John’s heartbeat humming in unison with his own, a rhythm just a little to fast to be explained by physical causes. Somewhere almost beyond his awareness, Dr Rodriguez’ words resound once again.

Bringing his own arms around John in return feels like the most natural action he has ever taken, though he tells himself that it is merely a coincidence that they end up underneath John’s suit jacket. When he splays his hands against John’s back, the thin fabric of his dress shirt is the only thing separating their skin. It feels luxurious beneath his fingers, but not even remotely as much so as the warmth seeping through it. Against his will, his hands begin to wander, exploring the dips of the spine, the uneven texture of countless scars.

Above him, John lets out a shuddering sigh and this he can feel too, the shift as his ribcage expands and deflates with his lungs, under his hands and through his own body. His eyes close on their own volition when he feels John resting his cheek against his hair.

He knows all too well that he shouldn’t, that after today, after Dr Rodriguez’ observations and the doubts that welled up in response, this is the very last thing he should do, but he simply can’t help himself. He allows himself to relax and fully sink into the embrace, a smile tugging at his lips when John’s arms tighten even further around him in response. Just for a moment, he lets the worry and confusion ebb away along with the world around him, pushes the ever present longing further aside, and lets his greedy heart drink up the contact and flutter and glow with hope. Lets himself be held warm and secure in the arms of the man he loves so desperately.

Time loses all relevance as John’s hands begin to mirror the touch of Harold’s own and caress the small of his back in languid strokes and just for this moment, he feels so content, so at peace with himself and the world that even the pain of his chronic injuries seems distant. After a too short while, John nuzzles his hair and heaves a deep sigh before with a last squeeze, his hold loosens and Harold regretfully lets his own hands fall back to his sides as they step apart with some reluctance.

But the touch isn’t withdrawn entirely, on of John’s hands settles against Harold’s waist, the other cupping his wrist gently. He knows he could easily step back and break the contact but doing so is the furthest thing from his mind. Not when John still looks like this, so uncertain and almost dejected that Harold suspects he might need the anchor the touch provides just as much as he himself does.

“Are you alright?” he asks again, almost breathes it out in hopes of avoiding breaking this moment. Irrational as the impulse is, he wants to reach out and run his hands over him once more, to check for injuries he is painfully aware his dear friend hides from him every now and then.

John nods minutely, but the tightening of his lips belies that non-answer.

_ “ _ Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

After this second prompting, John takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but even after a few seconds he remains silent, frowning in frustration. The sight makes Harold want to reach up to smooth his fingers over the frown lines, but he freezes in place when John steps closer once more.

He almost expects – hopes – to be drawn in for another embrace, but John’s hands remain in their places, touch still feather light. No, John is merely leaning in close, then bending his knees until they’re at the same height, where he hesitates, waiting for… something.

Before Harold’s mind has the chance to fully process and interpret the situation, John seems to take his stillness as the permission he has obviously been waiting for and Harold's eyes flare wide open when their lips touch. It’s soft, with a hesitant quality at first and barely heavier than the warm, dry hands still lingering against his wrist and waist. One of them makes a small, vulnerable noise, though Harold finds it impossible to determine who, all he registers of it are the vibrations transferred through the contact.

Were he any less distracted, would have a million questions racing through his mind, but they are less than a hum in the background, and he probably would have expected his heart to race as well. Yet, the kiss – he won’t touch upon the thought that  _ John is kissing him _ , not until much later, when he is finally alone and has regained his handle on the hope burning joyfully in him – feels strangely comforting. There is some novelty to it, but in a way, it feels as familiar as John’s hand on the small of his back as they walk side by side, as though this is something they have been doing for years.

The small, irrational voice in the back of his head insisting that this is something they really ought to have been doing for years is sternly ignored.

He doesn’t realise how he hasn’t blinked until he noticed the dryness of his eyes once they pull back and John roughly whispers “God, Harold...”, still so close that his breath warms his lips. He answers his apologetic look with one he hopes is reassuring and the way John once again can’t seem to meet his eyes tugs at his heart. He wants to ask once again if he’s alright, but John seems to need a moment to compose himself and find words for whatever it is that has him so uncharacteristically frazzled.

John lets go of his wrist to bring his hand up and caress his cheek, the warmth of his fingers almost more prominent than the contact itself, as though he is afraid that at the slightest touch, Harold might crumble into dust. As though that happening is is greatest fear and yet he still cannot help reaching out. There is an expression of wonder on his face, of dream-like astonishment and Harold’s heart beats a painful rhythm against his ribs.

“I can never thank you enough for giving me this job.”

Surely his heart must have broken something, must have beaten a splinter off the bone that now digs into the stupid old muscle because there is no other explanation for the pain in his chest. After all, he knows very well – always has – that John’s regard for him is in fact founded in his gratitude. Hearing this final confirmation cannot possibly hurt this much, in fact he should be grateful to have the foolish vines of hope curbed.

He wants to smile, takes a breath to tell him that there really is no need to thank him, that it’s Harold who should be grateful for his hard work, for his loyalty and company and friendship. John never lets him.

“But that’s not what… Sometimes I think it wouldn’t have been enough, not in the long run. You saved my life, Harold, but you also saved  _ me _ .” He pauses there, looks away again, but when his eyes meet Harold’s again they’re filled with intensity. “When I started working for you, it took a few days, but I stopped wanting to die. And I was grateful for that, and yeah, I always will be and I don’t think that’s a debt I can ever repay. For a while, that  _ was _ enough, I was good with that and I would have been for a while longer. But it didn’t stop there,  _ you _ didn’t stop there. Not sure when or how exactly it happened and that probably doesn’t matter anyway, but I stopped wanting to just  _ not die _ . I started wanting to  _ live _ .” He stops there again to swallow thickly and his voice is wavering when he continues and at some point, Harold’s eyes have started to burn.

“That’s not just the job and it’s not just gratitude either, it’s  _ you _ , Harold.  _ You _ made me want to live. You saved me.”

Harold's vision is going blurry, he blinks rapidly and all that does is let the honesty written all over John become clearer. He doesn’t know what to do with this, with the weight of those words, so he follows the instinct telling him to pull John close again. His heart aches less when John’s arms close around him once more. Making use of the improved mobility in his neck, he lets his head rest against John’s collarbone where his nose brushes John’s neck, closes his eyes and  _ breathes _ .

He thinks of Nathan’s smile swallowed by the blast as the ferry explodes, of the grief and denial and heartbreak written on Grace’s face, of the feeling of Semtex underneath his fingers as he presses it to Alicia Corwin’s car and her panicked voice in his ear while the trigger is gripped tightly in his hand. Of the too empty library and the way frozen soil barely yields to his efforts with the shovel and of how long it takes to drag Rick Dillinger’s heavy body into its shallow grave.

Thinks of John’s smile and fresh tea and donuts in the morning and days off filled with movies and banter, quiet company while he reads and walks through Central Park.

He never wanted to die, but wanting to live… “I understand.” he whispers into John’s skin, swallowing another phrase, a confession pressing against the inside of his lips. As unrealistic as the notion is, for a second he wishes he won’t have to let go ever again and something tells him that perhaps at least  _ this _ sentiment isn’t one-sided.

It’s the vibration of the phone in his pocket that shatters the moment and reminds them both that they do in fact have to pull apart. There still is a world around them and they still have a case to focus on. A case for which they have no more information to gather here.

When John has stepped back far enough, he sees Dr Rodriguez stand behind her desk, bending over it in pretence of filling out some form. Her gaze is politely turned away to give them a semblance of privacy, but her smile, half hidden behind strands of hair, is wide enough to show the dimples in her cheeks.

It turns smaller, more professional and polite when Harold awkwardly clears his throat and she looks up at them.

“I think we’d like to make our way home now.” His voice seems too loud all of a sudden. He barely recognises it.

The number nods once John has made an affirmative noise. “Of course. I’m very glad that you feel like you’ve made some progress here today. But while I’m confident that you’ll continue to make your relationship work despite your differences I do think you should seek some more counselling, there still are some things you’ll need to work and keep an eye on through and you’d benefit from having an objective presence in the room. That can be me, of course, or if you’d prefer I can refer you to a colleague at any time.”

He glances at John under the guise of wordlessly seeking his opinion, and isn’t quite sure whether he feels relieved or disappointed to find his capable partner once more composed, returning the number’s polite smile.

“Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

John thanks her as well, they both shake her hand and bid her goodbye, then they’re heading for the door, where John once again helps him into his coat. He enjoys every coincidental brush of John’s hands as if they hadn’t just spent who knew how many minutes holding on to one another. As they step out of the office, John’s arm finds its way around his waist again and against his expectations, his hold remains there even once the door clicks shut, cutting off their number’s line of sight.

It’s firmer than usual too, and after he catches the look of concern John gives him – obviously he isn’t hiding his slightly exacerbated limp as well as he thought – he accepts the unspoken invitation and leans further into John, letting him support him.

The strange tension between them hasn’t dissipated when they step onto the elevator and ride down in silence, standing even closer than they usually do. Harold is almost tucked into John’s side and just like he imagined earlier, John’s warmth is seeping through the layers of fabric between them and slowly, the ache in his leg is beginning to recede. Of course, the one in his heart proves to be much more resilient.

His lips feel like branded with sense-memory where they touched John’s. The comfort of their hug is lingering along with Dr Rodriguez advice in the forefront of his mind and as much as he tries, there is no pushing them away, not entirely.

One look at John, and he realises he isn’t the only one affected by this day. His friend is once again wearing a too blank mask, passable as composure to a less astute onlooker, but the turmoil in his expressive eyes is glaringly obvious to Harold. Fighting the urge to reach up and trace his fingertips over his own lips, or perhaps just to reach for John’s hand, he is glad for the distraction of the elevator opening.

It’s only then, to his embarrassment, that he remembers the message he received while still in their number’s office. He angles for his phone as they step out onto the street, opens the messages and frowns in frustration.

“According to Detective Fusco, the only prints clearly identifiable are those of Dr Rodriguez. There is a second set, but none in good enough quality to identify. However, the algorithm I used to compare the letters to text samples taken from emails, social media and the like, has narrowed it down to five possible suspects. I’d hoped for less, but appalling grammar and limited vocabulary seems to be an unsurprisingly common trait among homophobes, and this particular one wasn’t kind enough to sign with his name. There’s a Mr Wright A...”

He breaks off when John takes the phone from his hands, zooming in on the letter, blue-grey eyes already studying line after line. A cold, quietly burning rage filters into those eyes, replacing the turmoil, and Harold cannot find a single shred of sympathy for whatever fate will befall the perpetrator at John’s hands.

“So I guess I’m sticking to the Doc’s tail for now?”

With an irritated sigh at both their lack of true progress and his own growing sense of uselessness, Harold nods. “That might be what’s best. I should head back h- to the library,”  _ Home _ . That’s how he thinks of the place. “hopefully a more detailed analysis of the pictures I took can finally give us some answers. Perhaps I can clear up one of the prints enough to be usable. The NYPD really should invest more into its forensic departments...”

Neither of them moves. The earlier drizzle starts up again, but John’s body is so warm against his side it doesn’t bother him. Silently, hidden in the shadow of a doorway, they watch the building on the opposite side of the street, listening to the rustling of papers being sorted and put away through the microphone of Dr Rodriguez’ cell, to the whisper of fabric as she must be putting on her coat. Their fingers brush when Harold takes his phone back from John and a few seconds later, the picture of the letters is replaced by the images of the building’s security cameras. Their number strides down the hallway with a spring in her step, open handbag hanging precariously from her shoulder, her phone in her hand, and on Harold’s the notifications of her texts to her girlfriend pop up simultaneously.

“Don’t worry,” he mutters at his phone under his breath, “we’ll make sure you can take her to that restaurant tomorrow.”

When he looks up, he sees the faintest upwards quirk of John’s lips and the sight has him strangely transfixed. It’s because of that, that he catches the look John throws him in return. One that is so full of warmth and gentle fondness, affectionate and longing, as though he can’t tear his gaze away any more than Harold can.  _ Loving _ .

He must be seeing things, he tells himself, but the thread of thought that would usually, reliably lead to perfectly reasonable explanations simply runs out into nothingness, cuts off and leaves him untethered, his heart bare and vulnerable without this string stitching its defences together. And no, the only things he sees are only the ones truly there, and just for a moment – though as suspended as it feels in time it might as well be eternity – everything seems  _ so clear _ all of a sudden.

It’s in that moment that he makes his decision, decides that the phantom sensation of John’s lips pressed to his is shamefully insufficient when John is so close and he merely needs to reach out. And he knows, for this one instant, he  _ knows _ that he won’t be rejected.

There is a growing lump in his throat and his heart seems to have given up on the notion of maintaining a consistent rhythm with how many beats it skips, but he holds John’s gaze as he turns his whole body towards him, slowly, so that the arm around his waist will remain there. It won’t be all that comfortable to reach that far up, he realises, but it will be well worth it. Although John’s other hand must be within much more comfortable reach, and it had felt rather nice in his earlier, so perhaps if he simply makes his intentions clear…

Their fingers are a hair’s breadth from touching when a crashing noise and the loud wail of a car alarm has them both startle. The gaze they’ve been holding breaks and with it, the moment shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! I hope you're continuing to enjoy this story? Any comments would be beyond appreciated!!!!!


	8. In which the case and councelling are concluded [Part 5]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the last two weeks' break. And that this chapter is so short, but I reckon the split just worked better this way. Thank you for bearing with me, and I hope you'll enjoy this one!
> 
> Warnings: Some unimaginative homophobic and sexist language, canon-typical violence and very mild gore (aka someone gets deservedly kneecapped)

In the time it takes Harold to fully turn around, John has retracted his hold and taken a step forward out of the shadows, blue eyes assessing their surroundings for any sign of a threat. The street itself is quiet aside from the abating afternoon rush, the alarm must be coming from the small back alley further down where the angle doesn’t allow them to see into it from their current vantage point.

A second of indecision later, the door of the office building is pushed open and out strides Dr Rodriguez. The distance makes it hard to see, but Harold thinks he can recognise her frown at the noise before she looks around for its origin. Head turned towards the alley, her eyes widen and her previous stride turns into a light jog, as fast as she obviously dares in her kitten heels.

John, unseen by their number, is making his own way towards the alley now, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder at Harold, who gives him a minuscule nod. Synchronously, they tap their earpieces and then John is off, leaving Harold to watch him wind his way through the never slowing traffic with baited breath, elegantly slipping between the speeding cars as though this is an entirely natural mode of transportation. Oblivious to how to Harold, is looks like he is a hair’s breadth away from certain death via vehicular manslaughter at any moment.

It is in moments like this than Harold truly resents his injuries, because while there is a certain relief in the knowledge that such a daring venture will probably never be expected of him, a larger part simply wishes he could remain at his partner’s side. For back-up he knows he cannot provide.

Scoffing at himself, he hurries towards the next pedestrian crossing as fast as his limp will carry him. A quick command sent from his phone has the traffic light turn green, timed so he doesn’t even need to break stride.

Over the noise of the traffic, he listens John’s breathing in his ear, slightly elevated from his sprint, but it doesn’t change with the second crashing noise and he tries to let that be a reassurance. These are the times that he hates, when he is left on the sidelines – and outside of the library, cut off from most of his systems – without so much as a clue as to what exactly is going on and he picks up his pace even more. In the entrance to the alley, still too far away for his comfort, he can see the faint orange glow of the car’s flashing lights reflected in the bricks, just as John ducks into it.

A third crash, glass shattering. Dr Rodriguez’s outcry is slightly distorted over the earpiece now that John must be quite close to her, though by now he himself is also close enough to hear it over the traffic, though he cannot quite guess if it is one of fear or outrage. He quickly concludes it’s the latter, by what sounds distinctively like a string of Spanish curse words that follows. And then, hers is joined by another voice, of an unknown male.

“You fucking bitch! You dirty fucking whore! You turned my son into a fucking faggot! I’m gonna make you pay for this! Rot in fucking hell! I’m gonna...”

“Oh dear.” Harold mutters under his breath, lips curling in distaste.

A few pedestrians on the opposite side of the street throw curious looks towards the alley. The tirade of expletives continues, until there he hears John’s sharp intake of breath.

“Mr Reese?”

No answer. The corner isn’t very far now and he knows his leg won’t thank him, but he cannot stand any further delay, cannot stand the inexpressible fear that comes with not knowing. Not knowing anything about the situation, not knowing if John is safe, or at least as safe as their chosen mission affords him to be. Not for one more second than absolutely necessary.

He has an absentminded awareness that his downright parodic version of a light jog must look like a rather undignified hobble to the oblivious bystanders on the other side of the street, and is thus drawing more attention to him than he’d prefer. Then again, New Yorkers are used to much stranger sights, so he lets this vague concern fade along with the stabs of discomfort in his damaged limb behind a solid wall of prioritisation.

By now he can fully make out Dr Rodriguez’ voice. “Oh god, please, I…” Fearful and shaking, followed by surprise. “ _John?_ ”

“Whoever the fuck you are, get the fuck out of my way!” the still unknown assailant shouts, just as Harold finally reaches the corner, just as there is a noise akin to a piece of wood being dropped.

And finally, _finally_ the rasp of John’s low voice is in his ear again. “Stay back, Harold!” As quiet as it is delivered, the firmness in the warning bears no arguments and if he’d had the time to do so, he would have heeded it as well.

The red bricks of the facade scrape his palm as he tries in vain to catch some of his momentum and he stumbles around the corner, chest heaving. He lacks the time as well to assess the situation presenting itself to him, so it is to be attributed to a combination of instinct and John’s warning that has him duck.

The bang of a gunshot cuts through the evening air, the slug digging itself into the brick far above Harold, far enough that he safely could have remained standing. Red dust and chippings of stone rain down on him, staining the shoulder of his coat the collar of his shirt, but he pays it little mind, even as a second bullet finds its way next to its twin just fractions of a moment later. As long as the worst they cause is some minor property damage, it means John and their number are unharmed.

The next three gunshots are fired in rapid succession and do not find the building. Further down the alley, the assailant’s firearm clatters to the ground, soon followed by the man himself crumbling with a cry of pain. Now Harold recognises him as one Hank Sullivan, father of one of Dr Rodriguez’ patients and on the list of suspects his analysis of the letters identified.

John steps forward from where he has been covering the number, holstering his own weapon as he kicks Mr Sullivan’s away, who lies on the ground, groaning, and John gives Harold a quick nod. It’s over, the danger has passed.

There are two growing stains of red perfectly centred on Mr Sullivan’s knees and a third one on his right arm. Behind him, the car still wails, several dents in its engine cover and the three windows he can see broken, and as he limps closer, now at a much more comfortable pace, he sees the wooden baseball bat half rolled underneath it.

After giving Dr Rodriguez a once-over, checking that she is uninjured, John strides over to Harold, eyeing him with an obvious concern that doesn’t abate even after he gives him a reassuring nod. Once close enough, John’s hand carefully settles on his shoulder, brushing the red dust off his coat.

“Are you…?”

“I’m alright John, thank you.” And suddenly they’re so close again, almost as close as they were in that doorway on the other side of the road. It feels impossible that that was mere minutes ago. Mere minutes ago that Harold almost…

He clears his throat. “Is Dr Rodriguez…?”

A louder grunt from Mr Sullivan draws their attention, once more tinged with rage rather than just the pain he must be experiencing due to the gunshot wounds. Theirs isn’t the only attention it gets. Dr Rodriguez approaches him slowly, cautiously, clearly still shaken but recovering more of her countenance with each step before she pauses, just a few feet away from him.

With her side turned to them and her face towards Mr Sullivan, Harold can only see the deep breath she draws by the shift in her posture, but he guesses that she is about to speak to her attacker. She doesn’t get the chance.

“You fucking bitch!” the wounded man hisses once again, though the display is now significantly more pathetic than threatening. “You...”

Dr Rodriguez obviously feels the same way, since she ignores the man’s ranting, calmly reaching into her handbag, pulling out a can of pepper spray. Predictably, the implementation of it ends the diatribe of hate-speech abruptly and effectively. As unpleasant as the sight is, Harold knows even if he were to try, he couldn’t dredge up enough sympathy to even wince at it. Next to him, John is smirking with sinister glee.

With a huff and a flick of her hair, the counsellor pockets the pepper spray again, and she does wince, not at Mr Sullivan’s whimpers but at the sight of them watching her once she turns around.

She clears her throat awkwardly. “That… was not very professional of me.”

“I don’t think either of us is going to judge you. But more importantly, you’re uninjured? Are you alright?”

The grin she gives Harold is shaky but genuine, with an edge of viciousness. “I’m more than alright.”

“Take it that was satisfying?” John teases, and Harold doesn’t have the heart for so much as even a reprimanding look, especially not at the sight of that lovely smirk widening.

“Oh, you have no idea! For years, hell, _decades_ I’ve been wanting to do something like this! I think this might be one of the most satisfying days I’ve ever had!”

“I can imagine.” Harold concedes as well.

“I’ll just wrap that up quickly.” John says with a nod towards the still groaning Mr Sullivan. “Want me to call Fusco?”

Harold considers for a moment, then turns for a moment. As expected, a few the pedestrians on the other side of the street who had thrown him looks are still there, phones lifted up to their ears and after the five gunshots, they surely aren’t the only ones placing calls to 911.

“I don’t think that will be necessary. I expect the police to arrive within the next three minutes, so we should better hurry. I’ll text the Detective on our way home.” He blinks. There it is again. _Home_.

A thought to be considered and examined further on the way there. For now, he turns once more to their number. “Dr Rodriguez, if you wouldn’t mind, John and I would really appreciate it, if you could...”

“Don’t worry.” she interrupts him with a cheeky smile. “Like I said, respecting my clients' privacy is one of my highest priorities. And experiencing a shock often does affect one’s memory quite a bit.”

 _“_ Thank you.”

Next to them, Mr Sullivan cries out as John yanks his injured arm upwards more roughly than Harold guesses is absolutely necessary and, still with that same air of sinister glee, zip-ties his wrist to the door of the damaged car _very_ tightly. Then again, Harold tells himself as he feels the corner of his own mouth twitch upwards, this is John’s area of expertise and he must know best what is necessary and appropriate.

“If you don’t mind the question, Harold,” Dr Rodriguez begins, her head tilted, pulling his attention back to her. “There have been some rumours about a vigilante in a suit, and I suppose it isn’t unreasonable to suspect someone like that would work with a partner. Does _that_ by any chance happen to be the private security job you both work?”

“If this information too is covered by doctor-patient confidentiality, then yes, perhaps it might just be.”

She nods in contemplation and lowers her voice. “You know, this whole time when we were talking, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something, but now… You two aren’t actually together yet, are you?”

Just like during their session, Harold finds himself unable to hold her expectant and strangely knowing gaze. “No, I… John doesn’t...”

“He does, Harold. Whether you are already in a committed romantic relationship or not, my advice still holds. You obviously love him very much, and he loves you just as much. You only need to allow yourself to see it. Office romances, even non-traditional ones, all come with their own set of issues, but ethics is not one of them in your case. Please promise me you’ll at least try to let yourself see how he feels about you?”

He nods, but luckily, before he has to force words past the lump in his throat, Mr Sullivan’s groans cut off abruptly. John stands over him with a look of satisfaction, his gun grabbed by the barrel and there is a red imprint vaguely the shape of its butt on the now unconscious Mr Sullivan’s forehead. In the distance, but audibly closing in, sirens wail.

“We better be on our way.” Harold forces out once he has managed to swallow the lump down.

Lily Rodriguez nods understandingly. “Thank you. And with that job of yours, or your relationship… I guess there isn’t much I can offer you in return for your help, but if either or both of you would like some counselling or simply advice. Well. Discretion is very important to me. But you really should go now, and I need to call my girlfriend. She always worries when I’m late.”

“Thank you.” John, having heard the offer, tells her as he holds out his arm. Harold steps up to him and tucks his arm into John’s unthinkingly, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Now that Mr Sullivan lies there slumped on the ground, tied to Dr Rodriguez’ damaged car and any danger he posed is averted, he is starting to feel the day’s strain. His earlier thought of asking John for a massage later turns from idle contemplation into a serious consideration. He tries to push it away.

The sirens aren’t quite so distant anymore as they make their way towards the exit at the other end of the alleyway, John subtly slowing his steps to Harold's pace as he always does. When they reach the corner, Harold throws one last look at Dr Rodriguez. She does seem fine, vibrating with energy but no longer shaken, phone pressed to her ear and a fond smile on her lips as she nods along to whatever her girlfriend may be saying on the other end of the line. For a fraction of a second, the light hits her from the right angle and her smile looks just like the one John regards him with every so often, just before he realises that Harold has caught him looking.

He has the sudden, inexplicable urge to reaffirm the promise he gave with only an ill-advised nod, to shout it down the alley over the noise of the sirens. But already the blue and red flashing lights are entering the alley and with another step, they’re rounding the corner, slipping out of sight just as New York’s finest arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! I would absolutely love to know what you think, comments are the air I breathe ;)


	9. In which Admin reaches a decision [Part 6]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaahhhh second last chapter!!! (No more reconsidering splits, the next one really is the last.) I hope you'll enjoy it!

They walk away to the noise of cars screeching to a halt and orders being shouted, followed by a string of rapid-fire instructions and medical observations, confirming that an ambulance has been called as well. Perhaps it ought to bother him that Mr Sullivan does most certainly need one, but his utter lack of sympathy for such a vile individual persists and he cannot bring himself to find fault in that.

As if reading the turn of his mind, John asks “So, what was this guy’s story anyway?”

“His name is Hank Sullivan, 54, father of a 31 year old son, David Sullivan. David, along with his boyfriend, is one of Dr Rodriguez’ clients. According to the good Doctor’s records, David recently decided to come out as pansexual, despite his family’s and especially his father’s obvious and exceedingly retrogressive mindset. Apparently, Hank Sullivan has somehow come to the non sequitur that David’s therapy is to blame for his sexual orientation.”

“Seems pretty straightforward, pun not intended.”

“Indeed, Mr Reese.” The familiarity of the honorific ought to be comforting, the distance it re-establishes reassuring. It isn’t. “In fact, if his stance on technology hadn’t been as regressive as his obsolete worldviews, we probably wouldn't even have had to leave the library to resolve this matter.”

John’s only response is a noncommittal hum and they lapse into a relatively comfortable silence, although the tension that had been between them just after they had left Dr Rodriguez’ office returns.

As much as he dreaded it the night before and this morning, as much as he knows he might come to regret the hope that still won’t let go of his weak heart, as much as this may be ethically questionable, Harold can’t regret Mr Sullivan’s technological incompetence. He can’t regret the time spent holding John’s hand, can’t regret the precious minutes of their embrace. And oh dear, the _kiss_ . The kiss he can still feel as though it’s been seared into the skin of his lips. _It was only a means to support our cover_.

The unspoken promise burns on his tongue and makes the thought taste like a lie, like an excuse. He takes a mental step back and examines the thought, the _excuse_ , with enforced detachment. Undeniably, it was an action supportive of their cover, but absolutely necessary? No, and yet it doesn’t make it indicative of the underlying reason Harold’s heart wishes for it to have. No, it is exactly the kind of bold action John is prone to taking undercover, Einstein’s letters still lying in a drawer in the library are proof of that. And yet…

His gaze flickers to John walking by his side, eyes distant and looking lost in thought, though Harold knows he is as attuned to their surroundings as always. The daylight is rapidly fading by now and the drizzle is still hanging in the air, raindrops so fine they almost feel like fog. Neither of them has thought to bring an umbrella, though it might have been useless anyway. A cold gust of wind carries the tiny droplets upwards and they seem to seep into every pore.

Harold shivers and almost subconsciously steps a few inches closer to John, as much as their linked arms allow. John notices and turns to him with a half-smile that doesn’t hide his concern.

“Maybe we should get a cab?”

It takes a second for him to answer, distracted by the sudden image of turning further into him, of leaning against John’s chest the way he had in Dr Rodriguez’ office, of sliding his arms into the warmth underneath John’s coat and holding him close. Hopefully, John will interpret his hesitation as contemplation and the red he feels burning on the tips of his ears as a reaction to the cold.

“The weather does seem to be taking another term for the unpleasant.” he agrees.

Now it’s John who hesitates. “Finch, I… Do you want to come back to my place? I could make us dinner and we could catch whatever game or movie’s on?”

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, what he needs most after the day’s events is some time alone to think. “That sounds lovely, thank you. But you really don’t need to trouble yourself, we could always just order some take-out.”

Really, a man of John Reese’ age and profession doing his very best impression of puppy eyes shouldn’t possibly be this endearing. “Aw, don’t you like my cooking?”

“You know very well that I do, Mr Reese. Though if you keep insisting on indulging me this frequently, I may end up not wanting to go back to take-out.”

“You know, I never would’ve figured take-out would be part of a billionaire’s usual diet anyway. But who says you’d have to?”

“After having been a penniless fugitive and therefore also having been subjected to my own cooking for years, I’ve learned to subside on anything that’s short of being outright toxic. Take-out was already a vast improvement. But perhaps the idea of hiring you as my personal chef does have merit after all.”

“Hm. You know, if you want I could teach you some time.”

“As entertaining as such an attempt may be, there is a reason behind the saying that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Would John’s attempt at a cooking lesson be similar to his instructions on lock picking? Standing close enough to be almost wrapped around him, his hands grasping Harold's to patiently guide his movements?

John snorts, a grin now visibly tugging on the corners of his lips. “You’re not that old...” he teases.

“And regardless, I have always been a hopeless case in this matter. Aside from computers, I think the microwave oven may be one of humanity’s most useful inventions.” he shuts the suggestion down, before the temptation to agree becomes irresistible. Something that looks a little like disappointment crosses John’s expression before he turns his head abruptly, taking a step forward as much as he can with Harold's hold on his arm.

A few seconds later, a cab comes to a halt next to them and now he does have to let go. Before he can move from his spot, John has already opened the door for him, holding it, though Harold guesses it’s more of an excuse to remain close enough should he need help, since John has obviously long picked up on his increased discomfort. An action he would ordinarily find patronising, if John weren’t so subtle, weren’t making it look so natural.

He slides into the cab with a little difficulty, for once relieved when John doesn’t reach for him, face once again stoic and eyes distant. The door closes and the one on the other side opens, John sitting down next to him, almost more on the middle than on the window seat and a few droplets of rain find their way from the sleeve of his coat onto Harold’s hand.

“To the corner of Canal and Elizabeth street, please.” Harold instructs, glad when the cab driver simply nods and switches on the meter instead of attempting to make small talk.

The acceleration is a little abrupt, it catches Harold by surprise and he finds himself slipping a few inches to the side, further towards the middle seat. The middle seat, on which both he and John are each resting one of their hands. He almost startles at the unexpected touch, but even though his heart rate is elevating and with every passing second, the sensation of John’s dry skin against his own captures more of his attention, he doesn’t pull his hand away. Neither of them does. Neither of them even looks.

He suddenly wishes for that strange moment of perceived surety back, the audacity that gripped him when they hid in that doorway across the street. The inexplicable certainty that had nearly allowed him to take John’s hand, convinced he could tug him into another kiss. Now, with every bump in the road the contact turns into a small, accidental caress and Harold had never expected there would be a day when he wishes New York’s streets had more potholes. And yet, he cannot find the courage to take John’s hand in his this time.

The cab’s wheels rush over the damp asphalt and the cab’s radio plays a run of the mill pop mix. Drizzle gathers on the window and melts into larger drops that run sideways, pushed from the direct path of gravity by the airflow. Beyond them, the lights of the city begin to blur.

If he had to estimate, Harold would say he lasts a good fifteen minutes before he finds his eyes pulled inevitably to John’s profile. The streetlights are painting streaks of gold through his hair, running over the silver ones and dipping away before being chased by new ones. Sparks are dancing on the tips of his eyelashes. But he still looks lost in thought just as before, except there now is a tension between his brows, a hint of a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The words are out before Harold can stop himself. “I suppose since you intend to cook anyway, perhaps I could sous-chef for you? Surely as long as I remain under expert supervision, there’s a limit to the disaster even I can cause while chopping vegetables.”

There is no taking them back, nor regretting them, not with the way John’s face immediately lights up when he turns to Harold, the enthusiasm his voice carries. “Sure, if you want!”

“Well, seeing as you’re so obviously determined to go through all that trouble for me, I might as well make myself useful. And who knows, I might learn a thing or two after all. I trust you’ll keep me from chopping into my own fingers?”

For a split second the warmth lingering against Harold’s hand vanishes, only to return as a light caress across his fingers, so brief it would feel purely accidental if he didn’t know better.

“Wouldn’t let anything happen to them.” _To you_ reverberates in the air between them, carried on the entirely false lightheartedness in John’s voice.

“I know.” _I trust you_.

The silence stretches as John simply looks at him as though he is seeing him for the first time, with astonishment and a curious vulnerability. The silence feeds the tension between them until it feels like static electricity hangs in the very air they breathe.

As much as he wishes he’d find the courage to take John’s hand, it’s Harold who looks away first. It does nothing to dissipate the almost electric charge. His hands fumble when he pulls his phone from his pocket – desperate for a distraction, _any_ distraction – and it almost slips from his grasp. When he types in his password, his fingers leave the smallest droplets of sweat, distorting the light of the screen into microscopic rainbows. He stares at them for a moment until he can give himself a mental shake, forcing his thoughts back on track.

He sends a quick text to Detective Fusco informing them of the outcome of their case and it takes but a few seconds to get a reply, the speediness of which belies his insistence of being too busy with paperwork to check up on Mr Sullivan.

Next, he accesses one of his banks and wires enough money to replace her car into Dr Rodriguez’ bank account.

“That seems pretty generous. Pretty sure that model of Suzuki is a little cheaper than that.” John comments, amused.

Harold looks up, but he can’t make himself turn towards his partner again, not when he can already see the soft smile he is regarded with in the reflection of the window. And he knows if he were to look at it directly, he won’t want to explain it away any longer.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate having a larger range of choice, or at least her girlfriend will. Judging by her friendczar groups, Melinda has quite the interest in cars. Plus, there are fuel and eventual other maintenance costs to consider.”

 _“_ You liked her, didn’t you.”

“She does good and important work.” Something in her bank statements catches his eye. “Hm. The rent of her office seems a little high. Perhaps I should buy the building. Real estate in Brooklyn is a good investment these days.” He files the thought away for later consideration, idly flicking through apps instead. Going by the reflection in the window, John is still watching him with that same smile.

Something will have to give, and soon, it occurs to him with almost the same clarity that possessed him when they hid in that doorway. The lump in his throat has never quite gone away and his heart seems to insist in clenching painfully with every second beat. He wants to reach for his usual defence mechanisms but finds himself blocked by the wordless promise, compelled by it to try and _see_ and already the hope warring with his fear of reaction has rubbed him raw, stripped his heart bare and left his mind vulnerable and hypersensitised like an exposed nerve.

Tonight, he decides. Rather a controlled descend than an inevitable but still unexpected crash downwards. The trust between them runs bone deep and anchors their friendship there. His heart is another question entirely, but their friendship and most importantly their working relationship will survive a rejection.

Tonight, after they’ve cooked and eaten together which might hopefully even settle his nerves somewhat, Harold will tell him. The very thought sends a thrill of terror and excitement through him. As much as he hates the uncertainty, he knows choosing the moment he tells him is the most control he could possibly gain over the situation. The human heart is a fickle thing.

He is shamefully glad for the traffic they run into on Manhattan bridge, for every minute they stop and for the slowness on the few metres the cab has to crawl forward ever so often. Underneath, the East River rushes towards the Atlantic. The very same river he had looked out to when his hired security personnel had pulled up the car beside the bench under the Queensboro bridge. The very same river whose water he’d watched rushing past when he finally, officially met John Reese for the first time.

He wants to laugh and shake his head at that younger version of himself, for his naiveté. Oh, he has always known that John Reese is special, from the very first moment he’d stumbled across his file, a knowledge reaffirmed with every minute spent watching him from afar, from the deceptive safety of sitting behind a monitor, with every scrap of information, surveillance footage and classified mission reports and all. But he’d had _no idea_. Nothing, in all those months of observing, learning, analysing and classifying, could have prepared him for the reality of the man that now shares his cab and has laid claim on whatever is left of his heart these days.

What would he say to that younger self if he could? As much as the paranoid part of himself would push him, he knows wouldn’t say anything at all. However the rest of this evening may turn out, he will never regret their acquaintance. More than that, he will forever cherish the unexpected friendship that grew from it and the hope for the chance of even more that makes his heart flutter isn’t something he thinks he could rue either. And yet that doesn’t stop the faint tremor in his hands.

On the other side of the glass, the raindrops are stationary, no longer pushed aside by the wind and no new ones accumulating. The drizzle must have finally dried up, for now at least. Still at it’s crawling pace, the cab pushes through the traffic towards the other side of the bridge, leaving the East River, glittering with the reflections of the nightly illumination, behind.

It’s almost dark by now, or at least as dark as New York City can get, which admittedly is not very. The rain might have let up, but the cloud cover still hangs low and thick around the tops of Manhattan’s skyscrapers, awash with the orange glow of the city lights. As much as he loves the city, there are times – few and far between as they may be, and perhaps it’s merely his currently more romantic mindset lending prominence to that feeling – when he misses the open sky and starry nights of more rural areas.

His eyes are still fixed on the clouds when the cab slows down even more and comes to a halt, the driver stopping the meter and pushing the glass partition open.

“That’ll be 10.50$.”

He sees John reaching for his wallet but manages to pull his own from his pocket first and distractedly fishes a fifty dollar bill from it. “Keep the change. Have a good evening.”

“Thank you, sir! And you too.”

Predictably, John has used the time of that exchange to slip from the cab and opens the door before Harold can reach for it. The familiar noises of unceasing traffic, the chatter of strangers and the occasional tourist’s camera going off embrace him and he breathes in the scent of cheap take-away and rain. This time, he takes John’s casually, subtly offered arm and lets himself be helped to his feet, and that part of him he expects to bristle stays curiously silent.

Once Harold stands safely on his feet and the initial cramping has abated, John closes the door but makes no move to pull away, leaving them in the same arrangement as before when they start walking again. Their pace is leisurely, even more so than with the earlier consideration John showed for him, so perhaps, Harold thinks, he might not be the only one enjoying the crisp evening air, washed of a large portion of its usual pollution by the rain.

They walk into a random direction, the cab having dropped them three blocks from John’s loft. Likely an unnecessary precaution, then again, John shares his paranoia and it _is_ a rather nice evening for a stroll, especially one in pleasant company. He tries his best to simply enjoy the moment, but thoughts of the conversation they will have to have are insistent on encroaching on his peace of mind.

It’s John who distracts him this time as they walk past a grocery store while winding their way around blocks towards their destination.

“I think I should have everything we need for spaghetti carbonara?”

“That sounds wonderful, Mr Reese.” He hesitates for a long moment, once more subtly eyeing John; how content he seems. And really, what reason does he still have for hesitating, other than force of habit. A shamefully insufficient reason to keep such trivial if personal information from the one person he trusts implicitly. “Actually, it’s one of my favourites.”

Immediately, John turns to him. “Really?”

It’s truly astonishing how he can make this man light up with nothing but such a small titbit of information. That John still wishes to close the gap of knowledge between them, that the operative in him needs new intelligence be it useful or not, that he might view it as a reward, or perhaps a sees it as a continuation of the investigative game of hide-and-seek they’ve played in the early days of their partnership or some other form of personal victory are all valid and believable explanations for this reaction.

But perhaps there is another one that he has been deliberately disregarding. One he has never allowed himself to see.

“My father used to make it all the time.” he continues, dissembling that he notices just how attentively John listens. “More often than not we wouldn’t have all the ingredients lying around, so he would always improvise. It turned into a bit of a game for a while, adding the most absurd ingredients, and yet he somehow always managed to make it taste delicious. Unfortunately, as I mentioned, I really haven’t inherited any of his cooking talent.” Melancholia is colouring his voice, but he makes no effort to hide it. This particular skill was one that had defied his father’s dementia for the longest time.

The thought of making and sharing this meal with John becomes more appealing by the second.

“My mom taught me how to cook. She was the opposite though, always stuck to the recipe by the letter. I used to, too, but I learned to improvise because it’s hard to hunt down ingredients in the little downtime between missions. It’s nice to have time for that again.” He pauses. “And to have someone to cook for.” he adds more quietly, almost shy.

“I’m glad to hear it. And as long as you don’t mind,” And he desperately hopes that won’t change by the end of the day, once Harold has made his confession. “I’ll happily swear off the take-out.”

John chuckles. “Good to know. Maybe I can still somehow talk you into letting me teach you?”

“We’ll see how tonight goes. If there’s any hope for me.” A double meaning, though only for him. Anticipation and dread warring in him create a sense of disconnect from the world and the hope that insists on continuing to grow has his head spinning. A particularly idiotic part of him wants to stop then and there, to blurt out his feeling to John, for the world to hear. Or better yet, to simply stop here on the sidewalk and pull him into another kiss.

“It’s not that different from chemistry.”

“Perhaps, but common chemistry has the distinct advantage of not requiring me to eat the produce. And the instructions tend to be significantly less vague and the results consistent.”

“They’ll be with cooking too, once you get a bit of a feeling for it.”

“I think I still prefer the idea of hiring you as my personal chef.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you tried it, Harold. Who knows, you might get a taste for it.”

When he side-eyes John for that truly atrocious pun, there is not only the expected half teasing, half pleased-with-himself grin, but also a general air of lightness to him. It seems as though for the moment, the weight of the world John carries on his shoulders along with the weight of his guilt with it has lifted and with a longing that surprises even himself, Harold wishes he could make this permanent.

And maybe he should have declined John’s initial invitation, maybe he ought to have taken this evening to evaluate his options properly, gather his thoughts in solitude, but to see his guilt-ridden partner like this is an invaluable treasure and he wouldn’t want to miss it for the world.

They both are content to ignore tension still so persistently present between them for now and lapse into a comfortable silence. The sky overhead is beginning to clear up, there won’t be any more rain for today, but instead a light breeze is picking up. It’s excuse enough for Harold to just like earlier step closer to John by increments, who pulls his arm away to once more wind it around Harold’s waist.

If it weren’t for the discomfort in his leg, he would have been perfectly happy to continue their peaceful stroll through the bustling New York night for hours, tucked into John’s side and confident in the silent affection they share, even if he doesn’t know the precise nature of it. On the other side of the street is a group of young people, presumably more tourists if the large cameras three of them wear around their necks are any indication. A few of them spot him and John, shooting subtle glances in their direction, pleased, cheery smiles on their faces.

One young woman notices that Harold spotted them in return and throws him a small grin and a thumbs-up, then she steps closer to the woman next to her and takes her hand, prompting the other to lay her head on her shoulder. It takes him a second to realise that he and John too must look like a couple, but he once he does, he smiles back at her. Only because seeing this is such a nice counterpoint to the unpleasant encounter with Mr Sullivan. Not in the least because something instinctive and possessive in a hidden corner of his heart hums with satisfaction at a stranger believing John to be _with_ him.

They round the last two blocks much too quickly and their pace slows even more once the building with John’s loft is within their sight, as though Harold isn’t the only one who wishes to drag this out. Observant as he is, it’s hardly beyond the realm of possibility that the operative has picked up on the sense of calm before the storm, on the awareness that something will have to give that sits like a splinter in Harold’s peace of mind. Or perhaps it’s even Harold’s intentions he has an inkling of, after all, they both have become rather frightfully good at reading one another.

With the exception of one area, if Dr Rodriguez is to be believed.

Too soon they are crossing the street in the diffused light of a Thai joint and Harold takes a last fortifying breath. For once, being out in public seems less daunting than stepping into the shadows to seek a more private place. John’s arm slides from his waist and he misses it instantly, but he puts on his best impassive mask when he angles for the keys, determined to get the first step over with. To walk through the door and go up to the loft, to cook and share dinner and then…

“Harold, wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I hope you still like this story? And that you might leave a comment? Pretty please? *makes John Reese-level puppy eyes*


	10. In which an option is selected [Part 7]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh last chapter! I'm sorry it's so late, but I've had a lot of personal stuff going on, and, well... But better late than never, right? I hope this will make up for it!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me and with this story, I hope you'll enjoy reading the last chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!

John’s hand is gently grasping his arm and when Harold turns to him, he immediately sees how the weight of the world has once again settled onto its usual place atop John’s shoulders. The nervous tension surrounding him like an aura is impossibly similar to the one he carried when he re-entered Dr Rodriguez’ office but increased by a tenfold. The very tension that had preceded their kiss, and Harold tells himself that he has no reason to expect another such favourable outcome, but even this thought is steeped in doubts, in hope.

John wets his lips nervously and Harold’s eyes are glued to his tongue’s path, to the sheen of wetness it leaves on those pink lips.

“I...” John starts and trails off right away, and glances to the side, gaze following a car driving by, flickering to the restaurant, to the other side, upwards to the darkened windows of the loft Harold gifted him with. He smiles, but it’s a half-hearted attempt at best, thin and trembling, lasting for barely more than a second. “I meant it.” he finally blurts out, voice filled with an urgency bordering on desperation.

“I don’t think I quite follow.” he answers honestly and his heart aches at the pleading, pained look John gives him.

“I meant it.” he repeats, pausing with self-directed frustration. “What I said to you earlier in the Doc’s office. What you mean to me, how you… That you gave me more than a job, even more than a purpose. You do, you know. Make me want to live again. I meant all of it.”

It shouldn’t be possible for Harold to hear anything at all with the way his hart beats painfully loud and the blood rushes in his ears. It’s not what he intended to say, but the question forces itself out even though his mouth is so dry all of a sudden that he shouldn’t be able to speak at all. “Does that mean you meant it too, when you...” _kissed me?_ For the way those two words linger loudly in the momentary silence, he might at well have spoken them and when John’s eyes flicker to his lips before he looks away, Harold knows he heard them as well.

Rationally, he is perfectly aware that the following hesitation cannot possibly last more than a few seconds, that despite each moment seemingly stretching into eternity, hardly any time passes at all. There is a softness to John’s gaze, a flush on his cheeks and ears that’s visible even in this low lighting, and a part of him already knows the answer – Dr Rodriguez was right on all accounts – because it has known it all along.

“Do you really need me to answer that?” John asks with a curious mixture of torment and resignation.

 _Yes_ , he wants to say, because his – obviously irrational – fears and insecurities are still trying to strangle his heart and he desperately needs the reassurance, but the vines of hope that have grown through his veins are blooming with a cautious joy and finally, he finds a few remnants of courage from his earlier moment of audacity. Not enough to pull John into another kiss like he truly wants to, but just enough for a coy smile.

“A demonstration would suffice as well, if that’s what you’d prefer.” It’s a little too quiet, a little to hesitant and his voice wavers just a little, but it _is_ enough.

John stares at him with hope and disbelief, takes a deep breath as though preparing to speak but no words leave him. It doesn’t take long for Harold’s doubts to begin filtering back in, for him to tell himself that perhaps he has entirely misinterpreted this situation after all, that his usual reasoning would have been correct. That he has overstepped the boundaries of decency and is jeopardising their personal and professional relationship over his stupid crush.

But then John makes a broken little noise and moves in as if he is helpless not to. It’s a clumsy kiss, both of them equally uncertain and Harold not having quite caught on to the happenings at first. There is too much pressure, on the verge of uncomfortable, and it seems to startle John who pulls back, and their noses bump when Harold unthinkingly attempts to chase the contact.

Now, the soft noise John makes is one of frustration and Harold can feel his own cheeks flush even as he cups the nape of John’s neck to pull him down and rest their foreheads together. It must be due to the day’s accumulated tension in combination with the present awkwardness, but laughter bubbles up in him, giddy and joyful, a little hysterical, a little too close to an undignified giggle, and entirely unstoppable. He can’t even remember the last time he laughed like this – probably after one of Nathan’s more embarrassing drunken escapades, or perhaps even as far back as one of Arthur’s pranks at MIT – but it’s a freeing sensation and it only takes a second until John joins in.

By the time they stop shaking with laughter, there are tears in Harold’s eyes, his glasses have begun to fog up and the muscles in his cheeks and abdomen are already aching faintly.

“Would you care to try that again, Mr Reese?” he offers once he is somewhat capable of intelligible speech again.

“Third time’s the charm, huh?”

It isn’t, or at least not quite, since neither of them is able to stop himself from grinning just yet. But it is a marked improvement and if Harold had to pinpoint the flavour of laughter, he would think of the taste of this kiss.

It takes several moments, but all of a sudden there is the same, strange yet delightful mix of novelty and comfort to it and _yes_ , he decides this time, they really ought to have been doing this for years. John yields to him easily now, lets him explore his mouth to his heart’s content, lets him control the pace and downright melts against him. The kiss deepens, John’s heart racing in tune with Harold’s own where his thumb is now stroking idly over his pulse point. He kisses him breathless, kisses his smile swollen, kisses him until he can no longer distinguish between his own taste and John’s with any certainty.

When he pulls back, it isn’t far, still close enough to share the breath they try to catch while he finds himself playing with John’s short but oh so soft hair, making a shiver run through him. It takes a considerable amount of restraint to refrain from kissing him again.

“Maybe we should take this upstairs now.” John tells him, breathy, his customary smirk tugging at his lips.

The heat on Harold’s face that never quite abated flares up again. “I apologise, I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“No objections here. Actually, I think you should get carried away like that again ASAP.”

“That may prove to be unavoidable.” A dry swallow. “I may have been wanting to do that for quite some time now.” he confesses sheepishly.

“God, Harold. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Well, it may have been a moot point then, but I wouldn’t say my point regarding you being ludicrously far out of my league was all that inaccurate. And even the physical aside, the possibility of you developing an interest in me beyond the platonic seemed more like wishful thinking...”

“Really? All my flirting with you, and you never got suspicious? And here I thought you were the one not interested.”

“In retrospect, I have been rather dense, haven’t I? Though I have to admit I’m surprised that I managed to hide my own interest from you, at times I felt I was being terribly obvious.”

John turns his gaze upwards, obviously remembering some of those instances and he huffs out another soft laugh, gentle and a little self-depreciating. “I’m a trained intelligence operative and you’re probably the greatest genius of this century. We shouldn’t be so bad at this.”

“We really are a little hopeless.”

The fond look he receives in response is the end for his capacity for self-restraint and John follows easily when Harold tucks at his lapel, pulling him into another kiss. He feels more than hears John humming his agreement into his lips.

It’s gentler than the previous one, but yet, once he can make himself draw back again, his partner is looking increasingly debauched. A startlingly satisfying sight that reminds him just a little too much of the images he’d created for himself on nights when he lacked the willpower to stop himself, despite the impropriety. And with that reminder, the doubts return as well. He clears his throat.

“I think I’ll better leave now. This was a rather emotional day and I don’t want you to make a hasty decision you may come to regret later. Should you change your mind, please be assured that I won’t hold it against you. And in addition to my obligations as your friend, as I mentioned earlier I do have responsibilities towards you as your employer, no matter the lack of formal employment contract between us...”

“This isn’t a hasty decision, Harold. I’ve had these feelings for you for a long time, hell, probably longer than I even know. And I’ve wanted you for even longer.” Then he smirks. “You can sexually harass me all you want.”

Although he does recognise it as the attempt to lighten the mood that it is, Harold can’t help his frown, can’t help the way something around his heart twists unpleasantly. “Your consent is not a joking matter, Mr Reese! I know… I know what was expected of you when you worked for the government and while you may have taken to that aspect of your duties as to any other, I would _never_...”

He breaks off when John kisses his forehead, just above the nose bridge of his glasses. “Sorry. And I know. I do want you, but we can take this as slowly as we need. Tonight just...” his voice threatens to crack. “Please stay?”

Harold feels a small part of him shatter at the pleading, the uncertainty in John’s voice. John, who has suffered so much and still gifts the world with all his devotion and dedication and willingness to sacrifice. John, who so rarely asks for anything for himself.

And he continues before Harold can reassure him, as if Harold needed any further convincing. “We could just stick to the plan. Cook and have dinner and watch whatever’s on TV tonight. Maybe make out a little? I’ll even take the couch if you stay over.”

“No.” He watches John flinch and cringes at his own thoughtlessness. “No, it’s your apartment, I’m not taking your bed. The couch will be perfectly sufficient for me as well.” he hurries to clarify.

John’s frame relaxes with relief even as he eyes Harold sceptically. It’s not a lie, exactly, the couch would indeed be serviceable though it would make for a rather miserable morning and obviously, John suspects so as well. “You know, the bed you got me is pretty spacious. We could always just share. I even promise to try my best to keep my hands to myself.”

Unbidden, memories of the previous evening surface. Of watching the surveillance feed of Lily and Melinda in their sleeping embrace. Of the quiet, longing envy he felt at it, at knowing – or at least thinking he knew, with how completely he has managed to convince himself of this – that his wish of something similar with John would remain unattainable. Of seeing John asleep and wanting nothing more than to lay down with him and fall asleep in his arms.

A better man, or perhaps a stronger man than Harold would have declined the invitation, to ensure that his partner has the chance to fully consider this decision, to be truly certain that he does desire this shift in their relationship. On any other day, Harold might even have done so. But today, with his defences worn down from battling his hope, from having lost that battle so thoroughly, with how drunk he is on the still surreal realisation that his feelings apparently aren’t one-sided at all, today he is too weak to resist.

He kisses John once more, softly. “How could I resist when you bribe me with your cooking?”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re after?” he teases. “You wouldn’t stay if I wanted to get take-out instead?”

“Hm, well, maybe the company plays a role in my decision as well. And like I said, you really needn’t to go through all that trouble...”

“No, I… I like it.” The words ring like a confession. “I like cooking for you. I like that you enjoy my cooking. I like making you happy.”

Harold stares at him in wonder, humbled at the simple honesty he sees. In a daze, he raises his hand to cup John’s face, cradling it gently, marvelling at the precious gift that is the man before him. “And you excel at it.” he tells him and feels the skin shift with the tender smile that spreads across his expression.

It’s John who kisses him this time, but their lips are barely touching before Harold’s stomach – or more precisely its empty state – makes itself known quite audibly, though he can’t say he minds the sensation of John chuckling into the kiss.

“So, upstairs? Dinner?”

“Yes, that might be prudent.”

“And you’ll stay the night?”

“So long as you don’t mind sharing your bed, I would like that.”

Instead of answering, John takes hold of Harold’s hand – the one still cupping his face – and presses a feather-light kiss to the inside of his wrist. Entwines their fingers and they continue to hold hands as fumbling, he unlocks the door to the building. The neon lights in the elevator are almost jarring in their brightness, too harsh for the softness between them.

“I suppose we’ll just see where this evening takes us.” he says, more to fill the silence than anything else, before it occurs to him that he can just kiss John now. They don’t come up for breath until the elevator’s doors open with a ping, revealing the door to John’s loft, behind which waits the promise of spaghetti carbonara and the bed Harold chose and bought for him. He smiles when John kisses his cheek sweetly before unlocking that door as well.

Pause simulation.

Disregard behavioural parameters bt5-i116.9842 of su:Admin.

Disregard simulation parameters regarding su:Admin’s awareness of id:TM’s involvement.

Implement changes.

Adjust simulation.

Resume simulation.

Once inside, Harold's gaze immediately finds the camera hidden in the corner of the staircase leading up to John’s kitchen and he gives it a severe nod, looking directly into it and ignoring the quizzical expression John regards him with.

“You were right.” he tells his creation. “We really were oblivious idiots who never would have resolved our mutual pining without your thoughtful interference. But now that you’ve successfully implemented a romantic relationship between us, we will both live considerably happier and healthier than before, that much I can promise.”

Abort simulation.

Disregard final adjustment for final analysis.

Analysis complete.

Final report:

Primary objective: Chance of success: 91.07%

Secondary objective: Chance of success: 94.1%

Additional threat analysis: Interference of Primary Asset Reese increases Irrelevant id:Sullivan, Hank [SS#XXX-X4-0998]’s aggression levels, turning his intent towards Irrelevant id:Rodriguez, Lily [SS#XXX-X9-3577] from harmful to lethal. Interference will additionally cause lethal intent towards Primary Asset Reese. However, the two previous instances of use of a firearm by Irrelevant id:Sullivan, Hank [SS#XXX-X4-0998] indicate that neither Admin nor Primary Asset Reese nor Irrelevant id:Rodriguez, Lily [SS#XXX-X9-3577] will sustain serious injury at a likelihood above 1.6%.

Conclusion: Increased threat of serious or lethal injury to Admin, the Primary Asset and/or the Irrelevant is within acceptable parameters.

Overall conclusion: Option viable for real-life application.

Resetting to real time.

Having finished dressing, id:Reese, John is moving through the hallway towards installation hbnE5529; designation:elevator, Library at 57.2% of his average walking speed when suffering comparable minor injuries, indicating his continued reluctance to leave Admin’s company. Admin remains standing in the doorway connecting the hallway to designation:main office, attention fully focused on the retreating Primary Asset Reese. The distance between Admin and Primary Asset Reese is approximately 9.4m and increasing.

Warning: to optimise chance of success, interference must be implemented within the next 0.4 seconds.

Introduce variable id:TM?

Confirm.

Option selected.

Reclassify Irrelevant id:Rodriguez, Lily [SS#XXX-X9-3577] as Project Contingency (Everyone Is Relevant) applicable.

Reclassification complete.

Contacting Admin.

The ringtone, muffled by the wooden barrier of the drawer, sounds through designation:main office at 64 decibels. It takes 0.086 seconds for Admin to notice and a further 0.13 seconds for him to recognise it. He hesitates an additional 1.44 seconds, the minute relaxation of his muscles and change in stance indicating relief and emotional relaxation, before speaking.

Voice print identified; su:Admin: “Mr Reese?”

Primary Asset Reese halts in place 0.25 seconds after Admin has called his name, now at a distance of 10.1m.

Voice print identified; su:Admin: “It seems we aren't going to get off that lightly tonight after all.”

Realising that the remainder of the evening will be spent with Admin, id:Reese, John smiles widely, heart rate elevating by 11% due to pleased anticipation. Suppressing the openly emotional expression into a more guarded one takes him 1.012 seconds and he only turns towards Admin once this is successfully completed. The change in Primary Asset Reese’s stance is comparable to that exhibited by Admin.

Voice print identified; id:Reese, John; designation:Primary Asset: “New number already?”

Voice print identified; su:Admin: “That does appear to be the case.”

Primary Asset Reese’s eyebrows raise by 2.8mm, but there is no indication of true scepticism or any other, negative change in his emotional state.

Voice print identified; id:Reese, John; designation:Primary Asset: “Seems a bit back to back, don't you think?”

Voice print identified; su:Admin: “Ah yes, the true problem with the criminal element: the staggering lack of consideration for decent work hours. Would you like me to broach the topic with the felons' union?”

Similarly, Admin’s tone does not indicate any true complaint nor reproach. Obviously considering this humorous, Primary Asset Reese grins, the sight of which causes Admin’s heart rate to elevate by 14% and his breathing rate by 3%. After 0.36 seconds – making this an involuntary rather than a conscious reaction – Admin smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading all this!!! Aklsjdkjskhf it's so weird to have this fully posted now! (Now, let's see if I can refrain from starting to post my next chapter fic until I've finished at least another one, or a BB fic...)
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I really hope that you liked this fic and that if you did, you might leave me a comment? Comments fuel my writer soul (and I could really use that right now, well, always, but particularly at the moment), and this thing was a _lot_ of work...
> 
> So yeah, you'd have my eternal love and appreciation if you let me know what you think! :D


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